


Zeymah, Briinah (Brother, Sister)

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Comedy of Errors, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 44,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: It's the end of the world and Akatosh has awoken two Dragonborn to deal with the matter of His errant firstborn Alduin.Aurelia Callaina needs to deliver a crystal to a Synodic research team in Mzulft. Bjarni needs to find a way to throw the Imperials out of Skyrim.Did I mention that Akatosh has awoken two Dragonborn? Because it's them.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol/drug use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, sex work, torture, child abuse, child abandonment, child neglect and child death. Another Synod!Callaina AU because I can.

 

“Hmm. Who signed these papers again?” the garrison Tribune asked, examining the sheaf of documents Callaina had just handed her.

            “Gavros Plinius,” was Callaina’s calm reply. “Nibenese Evoker from Bravil’s chapterhouse, part of the Mzulft research team. Since I am a skilled enchanter and alchemist, he felt that I would be better suited for transporting the focusing crystal to Paratus Decimius, the chief Evoker on the team. But I think…”

            “You think?” the Tribune asked with a raised eyebrow.

            Callaina smiled wryly. “He’s a Niben-man and we both know Nibenese can’t handle the cold. I think he was more worried about himself freezing than the crystal, so he sent the first Nord Journeyman he could find instead.”

            The Tribune snickered. “I know what you mean. Well, the paperwork checks out, but you’ll need to stay in Helgen for the next couple days. I’m not at liberty to say why but… if General Tullius succeeds, this damned civil war will be ended in days instead of months.”

            Callaina winced. “I understand, Tribune.”

            “But…?” There was a question in the officer’s voice.

            “The Bruma chapterhouse is run by a skinflint who fails to appreciate that the Synod isn’t universal. He gave me fifty septims for the trip because he thinks I can claim hospitality at chapterhouses that don’t exist.” Callaina wrinkled her nose. “Would the local Temple put me up for a few septims? I’ll help with chores and alchemy.”

            “There’s only one magical institution in Skyrim and that’s the College of Winterhold,” the Tribune said. “They don’t recognise the authority of the Synod or the College of Whispers.”

            “Given the politics between those two, I can’t blame them,” Callaina admitted. “People who are seriously dedicated to the arcane but don’t have the ability to schmooze find themselves stuck at Journeyman in either faction.”

            “Sounds a lot like certain Legions I could name,” the Tribune agreed. “Tullius and Rikke don’t give a damn about politics, but the Cyrodiil Legions…”

            “So you’re Bruma Fourth?” Callaina had heard the news that the Empire’s best rapid-response Legion had been sent to quell the rebellion in eastern Skyrim.

            “No. Falkreath First. There are two native Legions in Skyrim.” The officer sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you’re not fussy, I can give you a bed in the barracks and access to the Legion mess for the next couple days. Everyone else who’s come to Helgen has kicked up a stink about the travel restriction.”

            “Thanks,” Callaina told her sincerely. “I’m not averse to taking a couple days’ break. Once I reach Mzulft, I’ll be under Paratus’ authority, and the best that can be said about that man is his brother-in-law’s the head of the Synodic Council.”

            “One of those, eh? Mzulft… That sounds dwarven.” The Tribune chuckled as she handed the paperwork back. “Maybe he’ll do you a favour and get killed by a Centurion.”

            “I don’t dare hope for such things. Kynareth frowns upon that sort of behaviour.” Callaina tucked her travel papers away. “How respected are mages in Skyrim?”

            “Not very. Nords fear magic. Yet they love enchantment and alchemy.” The Tribune’s snort said plenty.

            “If it’s allowed, I might wear civilian clothing and say I’m an alchemist,” Callaina said, looking down at her sombre dark blue robes.

            “Synodic rules don’t apply here. I can tell you that if you’re a half-competent alchemist, you’ll be twice as good as the local herbwives and cunning men,” the Tribune said decisively. “Even this far south, there are dozens of plants and flowers that alchemists in Cyrodiil aren’t familiar with.”

            “Oh, really?” Callaina said with a grin. “I might have able to write a paper or two about them.”

            The Tribune smiled thinly. “Good luck if you can.”

            Her name turned out to be Iulia and because half the garrison were with General Tullius, there were plenty of beds in the officers’ barracks. The food was several cuts better than what was served at the Bruma chapterhouse and Callaina enjoyed a meal of venison stew, grilled leeks, subtly sour flatbread and crumbling blue-veined cheese apparently made from goat’s milk. “You’re eating like you haven’t eaten for weeks,” Iulia chuckled as they lingered over the sweet-sour fermented honey drink Nords called mead.

            “It’s beans, cabbage soup and flatbread at the Bruma chapterhouse,” Callaina admitted wryly. “Enodius is a skinflint, as I said before, and he’ll be damned before he pays so much as a septim for a bit of meat for the Journeymen and Apprentices.”

            “Have you considered service in the Legion?” Iulia asked. “If you’re any good at alchemy, you could have your pick of posts in Skyrim. The Falkreath and Haafingar Firsts aren’t as prestigious as any of the Cyrodiil or High Rock Legions, but we rarely see trouble compared to the others.”

            Callaina rolled back her right sleeve to show her branded forearm. “I did a four-year stint in the Anvil Third, Tribune. I appreciate the offer, but I’m happy to be a civilian these days.”

            Iulia’s eyebrow rose. “Four years and you remained an Auxiliary?”

            “I had some embarrassing relatives who were involved in the Bruma Rebellion,” Callaina admitted with a sigh. “I was a kid then but the Cyrod commanders held a grudge.”

            “Half of bloody Bruma had relatives in the Rebellion,” Iulia said, shaking her head. “Are they going to stall everyone from the County?”

            “If the Cyrod Legions and Synod have their say, yes,” Callaina said sourly. “That’s assuming our elven-“

            She swallowed the words. This mead was stronger than she expected. “I’m sorry. You can only rant at your grandfather’s grave for so long before the satisfaction wears thin. Gavros has given me a chance to advance. I intend to become an Evoker and take over the Bruma chapterhouse.”

            “Bruma’s overrated. Helgen could use a good alchemist and you wouldn’t have to answer to the Synod.” There was something in Iulia’s eyes that promised much.

            Callaina smiled a little. “Let me deliver this damn crystal to Paratus first. Maybe I could set up the first Synodic chapterhouse in Skyrim here. Winterhold’s far to the north, right?”

            “It’s as north as you can go and still be in Tamriel,” Iulia confirmed.

            “So maybe there’s room for expansion in the south. But I need to deliver this damned crystal first.”

            Iulia smiled. “I can guarantee that a chapterhouse would be welcome in Falkreath Hold, despite what the locals think about magic.”

…

“Hey, you’re finally awake.”

            “Fuck off,” Bjarni groaned as he raised his pounding head. “Where are we?”

            “Near Helgen.” The rangy, sun-blond man sighed. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries in it?”

            “We’re likely to meet Shor today and you’re babbling about _mead_?” Sigdrifa asked on Ralof’s other side.

            “I’d rather talk about mead than the possibility of sharing Sovngarde with you,” Ralof said dryly.

            _I’m going to the headsman’s block with almost my entire family,_ Bjarni reflected as he slumped back against the wagon-wall with a groan. The thought wasn’t that distressing. It was the execution and the fact that Galmar and Egil would be left to hold the Stormcloak rebellion together that concerned him.

            “Talos Himself will greet me when I arrive in Sovngarde,” Sigdrifa replied with a tightening of her mouth.

            “Uh huh,” Ralof drawled sceptically.

            Bjarni glanced at his father. Despite their predicament and the gag in his mouth, Ulfric looked more amused than anything else.

            Sigdrifa began to pray. The kind of loud, ostentatious, _annoying_ praying that made Bjarni’s head hurt even more. Her raven-harsh voice might be good for shouting orders across a battlefield, but it was no pleasure to hear when you had a headache.

            “Shut up back there!” ordered the Cyrod Legionnaire driving their wagon.

            “Or what, you’ll execute us?” Ralof shot back.

            Bjarni sighed as the wagon trundled down the road from Haemar’s Pass. The headman’s axe might just be a blessing. His head would stop hurting at least.

            They arrived at Helgen, where General Tullius was talking to a black-robed Altmer on a horse accompanied by two guards. “Elenwen,” Ralof spat in disgust. “I’m not surprised she had a hand in this.”

            “I hope she buys you dinner first!” Bjarni yelled as they went past.

            If looks could have killed, Tullius’ glacial glare would have dropped Bjarni then and there.

            Ulfric was chuckling past the gag and Ralof had a big grin on his handsome face. Sigdrifa was still praying to Talos.

            The wagon stopped in a courtyard before Helgen Keep, a cluster of civilians gathered to watch. One of them, a brunette with olive-bronze skin and a beaky nose in foreign-cut robes, visibly blanched as the Stormcloaks were marched off the wagon and towards the block. Maybe she was sympathetic to the cause.

            Everyone was divided into two lines and Bjarni found himself with Ralof. “Keep your nerve,” the Plainsman muttered. “One quick swipe and you’ll be opening your eyes in Sovngarde.”

            A Priestess of Arkay arrived and after orders from Tullius, started last rites. In the name of the _Eight_ Divines. One of the other Stormcloaks, Gorran from Whiterun, spat to the side and stepped forward. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with,” he told the Legionnaires.

            “Very well,” the Priestess said huffily.

            “Come on, we don’t have all morning,” Gorran taunted the garrison Tribune as she forced him to kneel at the block.

            “You’re right. We’re late for lunch,” the Tribune retorted. “Headsman?”

            “My ancestors are smiling at me today, Redguard,” Gorran told the headsman. “Can you say the same about yours?”

            The headsman’s axe parted head from shoulders. He was a professional alright.

            “Next will be the little smartarse Ulfric calls a son,” the Tribune announced. “After that, the Stormsword and the Storm-Hammer.”

            “Do I get any last words?” Bjarni asked as Quaestor Hadvar, Legate Primus Rikke’s errand boy, guided him towards the block.

            “No,” Tullius said flatly.

            “Too bad. Your mother came first in the Anvil Cup and your father isn’t worth the stud fee-“

            The Tribune kicked Bjarni into place, keeping him there with her knee.

            “-And your children will have four eyes, two heads and buck teeth!” Bjarni finished quickly as the axe was lifted.

            But it never fell. Something big and black landed on the tower of Helgen Keep and Shouted.

            Oblivion broke loose.


	2. Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, descriptions of corpses and mentions of torture.

 

“Dragons were _not_ on my itinerary.”

            Callaina panted as Iulia slammed the door behind them. Tullius himself had given the order to flee through the Keep and since her defensive spells weren’t up to withstanding the long strafing flames of the swooping dragon, the Synodic Journeyman was only too pleased to obey him.

            “Dragons are supposed to be extinct,” Iulia agreed, drawing her sword. “How good are you with combat magic? I’m pretty sure Stormcloaks will be heading for the Keep once they realise that thing won’t die.”

            “I’m guessing a temporary truce isn’t an option? I know they’re rebels but _that_ trumps any political dispute!” Callaina placed a hand on her chest and took deep calming breaths. Now wasn’t the time to panic.

            Iulia’s expression was grim. “It’s not likely. We’ve had to use enhanced interrogative techniques on Stormcloaks in order to set up the ambush. That dragon… It arrived as that little bastard Bjarni was to be executed. The Stormsword has pulled stranger cards from her sleeve before.”

            “The old stories I heard as a child say that the dragons are the harbingers of the end times,” Callaina said softly. “That thing isn’t on anyone’s side.”

            Iulia shrugged. “Let’s worry about getting out of here and regrouping with the General. The civil war just got a lot more interesting.”

            They reached the central foyer of the Keep, where the bulky sable-haired Bjarni and a handsome blond man were taking the arms and armour of a dead Stormcloak. “We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, Gunjar,” the blond was saying sadly as he closed the man’s eyes.

            Callaina opened her mouth to speak but Bjarni rose to his feet with frightening speed, calling a shard of blue-white ice to his hand and flicking it almost negligently. Callaina called a Lesser Ward in front of her and Iulia, but it charged a moment too late, and the Tribune collapsed with the ice spike in her eye. “I wouldn’t think about it,” the son of Ulfric warned in his rumbling basso. “You’ve done nothing to us… yet.”

            She ignored him, kneeling by Iulia’s side, but it was too late for the flirtatious Tribune. Golden light shimmered around her hands before flickering away uselessly. “There’s more in the Keep,” she warned.

            “Then they die if they try to stop us leaving,” the blond said as he stood up. “You can come and go as you please, Redguard.”

            “I’m a Nord!” Callaina snapped after closing Iulia’s eyes. “Just because you damn rebels don’t seem to think we Nords from outside Skyrim matter-!”

            “The Empire doesn’t care about any Nord, wherever they’re from,” Bjarni said grimly. “Now _please_ stay out of our way. We don’t take pleasure in killing civilians.”

            With that, they were gone, striding further into the Keep. Callaina grabbed Iulia’s sword and keys and reluctantly followed their route.

            The bodies of dead Legionnaires were scattered across the kitchen, the corridor and the torture chamber in the depths of the Keep. The dragon had shouted with such force that it collapsed part of the Keep, forcing her to continue following the rebels. Judging by the crack of thunder inside, someone was using potent Destruction spells against the Legion soldiers.

            Eventually the dungeons became caverns and Callaina reached a blockage in the tunnel where the ceiling had partially collapsed. She took several deep calming breaths, centred herself, and placed both hands on the biggest boulder. Dual-casting Telekinesis was tricky work and she had to drink a magicka potion swiped from the kitchen, but she eventually cleared enough stones to push her way through. Fabric tore and skin scraped, but she managed to squeeze past the remaining rocks without bringing more of the cave down on her head.

            Caverns full of dead spiders and skeletons greeted her, lit by the eerie blue-green glow of viridian fungi, and at the largest of them the Stormcloaks were finishing off the last of a Legion squad. “Loot them of anything useful, particularly bows and arrows,” Sigdrifa Stormsword ordered in her harsh voice.

            Of _course_ she survived. She was too mean to die by dragon.

            “So why do you think this dragon’s appeared out of nowhere?” the blond was asking the heavy-boned, wheat-blond Ulfric Stormcloak, who’d lost his gag since the courtyard.

            “The final condition of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn has been fulfilled,” Ulfric replied in a baritone that rumbled like thunder. “Now we wait upon the Last Dragonborn to defeat the World-Eater.”

            “That wasn’t just any dragon, was it?” Sigdrifa asked grimly.

            “No, it was probably the World-Eater.” Ulfric’s tones turned dry with amusement. “Perhaps we can ask the Dragonborn to thank him just before they kill him, for he saved our lives.”

            _Prophecy of the- Oh sweet Mother Kynareth._ It was truly the end of days.

            Callaina lurked in the corridor until the Stormcloaks left, Ulfric clearing the rubble before him with a shout like the dragon’s. No wonder he’d been gagged.

            By the time she reached the largest cavern, Bjarni and the blond were skinning an arrow-studded bear. “The skin will make a fine mantle and Gerdur can use the meat,” the latter observed in his lazy drawl.

            “So we’re going to Riverwood then?”

            “Someone needs to warn Gerdur. I don’t see Hadvar and his friends doing it.”

            Callaina tried to stick to the shadows. Unfortunately, a mage who spent most of her life bent over an alchemy or enchanting table wasn’t the quietest of people and she found the two men looking in her direction.

            _Oh crap._

…

Judging by the scrapes and tears in her robes, the brunette mage had to squeeze through tight spaces on her way down here. In the light cast by a natural break in the cave’s ceiling, Bjarni could see the squarish jaw and high cheekbones that belied her olive-bronze complexion and Cyrod raptor’s nose. She was soft and a bit on the plump side; probably a healer or priestess by the way she’d tried to heal that bitch Tribune.

            “Go on,” he told her. “We’re not going to kill you.”

            Her jaw muscles rippled as her mouth tightened. “I was going to try and talk Iulia down, but you never gave me the chance.”

            “I have it on the best authority Tribune Iulia Narentia oversaw the torture and execution of several people, including a mage who had nothing to do with the Stormcloaks, simply to extract information for General Tullius’ ambush,” Bjarni said frankly. “Do you know how Tullius captured us? The carnificina. Do you know-“

            “I know what that is,” she said flatly. “I saw two of them in County Bruma before I was old enough to join the Legion.”

            “And yet you still joined,” Bjarni said. “Are you that loyal to the Empire?”

            “Loyalty had nothing to do with it. I was sent to the Legion as a conscripted Auxiliary at the age of sixteen, because that’s what the Imperial workhouses do,” she countered. “Where were your precious Stormcloaks when Cloud Ruler Temple and the Serpent’s Trail fell, huh?”

            “My father was running away with my mother, both of them carrying precious relics of Talos,” Bjarni told her. “The Stormcloaks came about a couple years later.”

            “Too late for those executed in the Bruma Purges,” she said bitterly.

            “Yes, it was,” Ralof said soberly. “I’m sorry we weren’t organised enough to help the Bruma Nords.”

            “If the Blades couldn’t defeat the Thalmor, what hope in Oblivion do you lot have?” she asked with a snort.

            “We have the first Battle-Tongue since Olaf One-Eye, the last Shieldmaiden of Talos, and a lot of pissed-off Legion veterans,” Ralof drawled. “Ulfric and Sigdrifa have learned from the Blades’ mistakes and many of their core followers were survivors of the Bruma Rebellion who managed to escape to Skyrim.”

            Bjarni looked at Ralof. “Why in the gods’ name are you telling her all this?”

            Ralof shrugged. “Why not? I’m guessing she doesn’t know a lot about us and is probably related to people the Thalmor killed in Bruma, maybe even Blades.”

            “Oh.”

            “I had one bloody job in Skyrim,” the mage said, blinking back tears. “Deliver a crystal to the Synodic research team at Mzulft. Running into dragons and rebels wasn’t in the plan.”

            Bjarni and Ralof exchanged looks. “Who’s the Synod?” the latter asked.

            “One of the two Imperial organisations for arcane studies,” she said unhappily. “The other lot are the College of Whispers and they study Conjuration, whereas the Synod follows the old Mages Guild rules.”

            “Well, the College will probably tell the Synod to piss off. They’re apolitical,” Bjarni told her. “What with the dragons and all, you should probably head back to Bruma.”

            “I know dragons are a sign of the end times,” she countered. “I’m not letting a couple of rebels talk me out of my one chance to advance past Journeyman.”

            Bjarni sighed. “Dragons aren’t even the biggest problem, woman. Between here and Mzulft, there’s giants and wolves and sabre cats and ice wraiths and bears, not to mention various renegade warriors and mages. The Legion’s slacked off for years in Skyrim and so all sorts of problems are festering in the wild places.”

            “I can cope,” she said stubbornly.

            Ralof shrugged. “We can’t stop her, Bjarni. I guess if the wolves are eating her, we should be able to reach Riverwood safely.”

            “Va’funcula,” she swore before stalking for the exit.

            Bjarni shook his head. You just couldn’t save some people.

           


	3. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of adultery, incompatible mixed-orientation arranged marriage, and child abandonment.

 

“A dragon! I saw a dragon! Huge it was and black as night!”

            “A dragon, Mother? Half the village already thinks you’re crazy,” the blond, blunt-featured Nord in sawdust-covered clothing informed the old woman scraping leather on their cottage’s front porch.

            “I know what I saw,” she said stubbornly. “When he gobbles you up, you’ll believe me then!”

            Callaina looked past the quarrelling pair down the single cobblestoned street. If what she’d overheard Bjarni and his blond keeper saying was correct, this had to be Riverwood. Judging by the scent of wood and sap in the air, it was a lumber town, and the double row of buildings that led towards a bridge ahead suggested a prosperous one. One smithy, where a burly wheat-blond man hammered metal, a store of some kind across the road from it, and what was probably the village inn beyond that.

            “Excuse me,” she greeted the blond lumberjack with a stiff smile. Hours of fear and running had drained her, but she didn’t think she had enough septims to even afford a pallet at the inn. “Is there anywhere here I can mix some basic potions?”

            “The inn,” he said. “Say, you’re not from around here, are you?”

            “If I was, I’d know where to make potions,” she said dryly.

            “I bet you’ve had a lot of adventures. I’ve never seen a robe cut like that. Is it Redguard? We had a few come through a couple days ago, heading for Whiterun. They were asking about a Redguard woman with scars on her cheek.”

            “I’m from Bruma,” Callaina said softly. “And believe me, adventures are overrated.”

            Before he could say anything else, she gave a quick nod and walked quickly to the inn. The sooner she could deliver the damned focus crystal to Paratus, the sooner she could get on with researching the dragons.

            The grandiosely named Sleeping Giant was run by a surly dark-haired Nord manning the bar and a sharp-featured blonde Breton whose slightly nasal soprano was vaguely familiar. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and she regarded Callaina with a raised eyebrow. “Guess you’re that Redguard who’s been pokin’ around Riverwood,” she said in the worst attempt at a village accent Callaina had ever heard.

            “I’m just here to make some basic potions, go to the store and sell them, then come back to rent a room for the night,” was Callaina’s curt reply. “I’m not ‘poking’ around anything.”

            “Sorry,” growled the Nord barkeep. “We just had a bunch of Redguards come by the other day stickin’ their noses into everything.”

            “I’m not a Redguard, I don’t have facial scars, and I don’t give a flying damn about anything other than a bed at the moment,” Callaina said bluntly.

            “Alchemy table’s over there,” the barkeep said, nodding to a collection of glass vessels beside a bedroom better furnished than a village inn should be. “We’re short of healin’ potions. Blue mountain flower and blisterwort or wheat will make a good one.”

            “Thanks.” Callaina did have some dried wheat and gathered blue flowers on her. It would be enough to cover a room tonight and some food for the journey to the next town. She needed to learn where Mzulft was beyond ‘north-eastern Skyrim’.

            The alchemical tools were clean, much to her mild surprise, and she was soon calling purified water from the air to her hand and carefully decocting blue liquid into tiny red ceramic vials. Healing potions were popular in Bruma and she saw no reason why it would be any different in Skyrim. Not everyone had the capacity to learn even a basic self-healing spell.

            After making four potions, she rinsed out the glassware and turned everything upside down to dry. The Breton kept on staring at her as she headed towards the door. Callaina surely wasn’t so exotic as to merit such rudeness, but she chose not to make anything of it.

            The general merchant was a weedy Niben-man named Lucan who handed over a small bag of septims in return for her potions. “You look like you’ve been in a fight,” he remarked.

            “Wolves,” Callaina said shortly – and truthfully.

            “Ah. I thought it might have been some of those bandits who stole my golden claw. Be careful, they’re up at Bleak Falls Barrow.”

            Callaina’s eyebrow rose. “Bleak Falls Barrow?”

            “Old Nord tomb on the mountain, the one with all the arches.” Lucan rubbed his chin. “Say, you look capable. Would you retrieve the golden claw for me? I can pay you.”

            “I’m not a sell-spell,” Callaina told him. “I’m actually on Synodic business. Do you know where Mzulft is?”

            “Nope, I’m afraid not.” Lucan sighed. “If you find any mercenaries on your way there, let them know there’s work at the Riverwood Trader.”

            “Sure,” she promised.

            The Breton had vanished by the time Callaina returned to the inn, but the barkeep Orgnar took her ten septims and told her the first room on the left was hers. Little more than a cubby hole, it had a bed-box filled with straw and furs. Callaina reminded herself that the fur pallet of an Apprentice back in Bruma or her bedroll as a Legionnaire had been worse. At least this inn was clean.

            She awoke to find the Breton in her room, the door closed behind her. “We need to talk,” the woman said curtly.

            “No, we don’t,” Callaina told her, wiping sleep from her eyes. “I’m _tired_ and nearly got fried by a _fucking_ dragon-“

            “I know. Thankfully only Hilde and myself saw it in Riverwood, or the whole town would have been in a panic.” The innkeep leaned against the door, effectively blocking Callaina from leaving. “Look, I know your name is Aurelia Callaina and you’re the daughter of Rustem Aurelius and Sigdrifa Stormsword. My name is Delphine. Delphine Revanche.”

            Being awoken in the middle of the night did nothing for Callaina’s tact. “Didn’t you commit adultery with my father?”

            Delphine sighed. “Yes. It wasn’t one of my better life choices. But I’ve broken cover because I need your help. You’ve seen and survived the dragons. You used to listen to Esbern’s stories. You’re probably the closest thing I’ll have to an expert on the damned things outside of going to High Hrothgar – and the Greybeards would Shout me off the damned mountain.”

            “I spent most of my time running from it and hiding from the Stormcloaks,” Callaina told her. “Why don’t you go to Windhelm and ask Jarl Ulfric? He seems to be an expert himself.”

            “Because even if I got through the front gates, your mother – his wife – would nail me to a wall,” Delphine answered bluntly. “She holds a grudge.”

            “I can’t possibly imagine why,” Callaina said sarcastically.

            “Honestly, neither can I. She and Rustem hated each other.” Delphine sighed again. “I’m surprised she married Ulfric. I suppose it was for the glory of mighty Talos.”

            “She decided Talosian relics and Ulfric were more important than me,” Callaina said bitterly.

            “I’m not surprised,” Delphine agreed. “I’m guessing if you were at Helgen, you would have seen them and your half-brother Bjarni. There’s another one named Egil who’s still in Windhelm. Those Redguards who came through the other day? Your father was leading them and there was a younger version of him among the Alik’r.”

            Callaina laughed sourly. “I guess they all moved on with their lives. How nice for them.”

            “It’s not fair, but since when has life ever been that?” Delphine observed.

            “I have a prior commitment,” Callaina told her. “I need to get a focusing crystal to Mzulft in north-eastern Skyrim. After that, I can do something about the dragons.”

            “The dragons won’t sit around for you to go deliver some chunk of glass,” Delphine said urgently. “We don’t even know why they’re back!”

            “Because it’s the Prophecy of the Dragonborn and the end times,” Callaina told her. “I think it was Alduin himself who attacked Helgen.”

            She deliberately lay back down and rolled over to look at the wall. “Piss off and let me sleep, Delphine. The dragons can wait. This crystal can’t.”

…

Like the proverbial bad septim, the Synod mage was just ahead of Bjarni and Ralof as they walked down the switchback trail beside the waterfall past Riverwood. It was the grey hour of early dawn and she was crisscrossing the path, picking various flowers and fungi with the deft fingers of an expert. Her robes, sewn from some muted blue and green fabric, were clean and neatly mended while her black hair fell down her back in a braid tied off with leather.

            They followed her down the hill, glad that Gerdur had given them some old clothing. Their Stormcloak uniforms would draw suspicious glares from Balgruuf’s Hold guard, most of whom leaned towards the Imperials in allegiance. So long as the mage kept her mouth shut, they should be able to cross the bridge and make it to the Stormcloak camp tucked in the foothills of the Throat of the World.

            She came to the crossroads where an unlit brazier stood, glancing over her shoulder. In the clear light of morning, her sculpted features were undeniably Nord and the resemblance to his _mother_ of all people striking. Most people wouldn’t see past the olive-bronze complexion and beaky nose. Maybe she was one of his grandfather’s late brother Balgeir’s bastards? Talos knew the man was notorious for his womanising even thirty years later.

            Her generous mouth tightened and blue-green eyes narrowed. It was like facing his mother when she was thoroughly disgusted with him. “I killed the wolves,” she told him as they neared the crossroad.

            “Yeah, thanks for the pelts,” Ralof drawled. “Found Mzulft yet?”

            “I will,” she said curtly. “I know it’s in north-eastern Skyrim.”

            “That’s a big area,” Bjarni observed. “Most of Eastmarch, in fact. You’re welcome to travel with us if you’d like.”

            “Eastmarch?”

            “The Hold of my father Ulfric,” Bjarni admitted. “To be honest, I’m curious as to what this crystal is needed for.”

            “I don’t know,” she said flatly. “Gavros didn’t tell me a lot, just gave me the job.”

            “Yes, yes, and it’s your only hope to rise in the Synod,” Bjarni said dryly. “What would they put you in charge of?”

            “The Bruma chapterhouse,” she said softly. “It’s been my home for much of my life.”

            Ralof sighed. “That’s… kind of sad, to see a Nord grateful for scraps from Imperial overlords. You could go to the College and become a powerful mage there.”

            “It was the life given to me when my mother decided Talos was more important than me and my grandfather committed treason,” she said flatly. “Well, the next time you’re praying to that bastard, tell Him Aurelia Callaina says to fuck off and take the Stormsword with Him.”

            She turned and followed the road to Whiterun, which really wasn’t the right place to go unless she was planning to catch a carriage to Windhelm and follow the Velothi Mountains to the only Dwemer ruins Bjarni knew of in Eastmarch.

            “Lovely manners,” Ralof observed. “I wonder why she hates your mother so much?”

            “I… don’t know,” Bjarni said slowly. “But I think I need to ask my mother a few questions.”

            They made it safely to the Stormcloak camp. Hjornskar Head-Smasher, the local commander, was leaning over a map-table with Ulfric and Sigdrifa. It was strange how Bjarni rarely thought of his mother as… Mother. It was always ‘the Stormsword’.

            “Looks like you’ll be asking those questions sooner than you thought,” Ralof muttered.

            “Bjarni, Ralof!” Ulfric pushed himself away from the table and came striding over, embracing first Bjarni and then Ralof. “I thought you were in Sovngarde for certain when you didn’t come here last night.”

            “We overnighted with my sister Gerdur,” Ralof explained, patting his liege lord on the back. “How did you overtake us? I’d’ve thought you’d have taken Haemar’s Pass back to the Rift.”

            “The dragon complicates matters… and I’d bet Tullius expected us to take the quickest route to the Old Holds,” Sigdrifa answered with a brief nod to them both. “It’s what I’d plan for in his shoes.”

            “It isn’t just the dragon that complicates things,” Bjarni said, staring into his mother’s sea-ice eyes. “We ran into a mage at Helgen. Medium-tall, beaky nose, blue-green eyes and probably mistaken for a Redguard at first glance.”

            “Was she with the Legion?” Ulfric asked, his tone brittle.

            “Once. She’s now with the Synod, travelling to Mzulft to deliver a focusing crystal to the research team there,” Bjarni said slowly. “She said, and I quote, ‘the next time you pray to Talos, tell Him Aurelia Callaina says to fuck off and take the Stormsword with Him’.”

            Until now, Bjarni had never seen Sigdrifa look anything other than coldly remote or icily furious. It was as if the Stormsword was beyond the full emotional range of an ordinary person thanks to her intense faith in Talos.

            Now she blanched and her mouth went slack. Then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed, only Hjornskar’s quick reflexes saving her from a self-inflicted braining on the map-table.

            Ulfric watched her faint with a brittle, faintly guilty expression. “During the chaos of Cloud Ruler’s fall, we only had a little time to find things and flee,” he said softly. “The western wing, where the family quarters were, already burned; we fought our way to the eastern wing, where the armoury was, and retrieved the Sword of the Septims and the Armour of Tiber Septim. Then we fled through the Serpent’s Trail. We had no reason to believe she survived.”

            _“It was the life given to me when my mother decided Talos was more important than me.”_

            “So those stories in Falkreath of the Stormsword having a Redguard husband were true?” Ralof asked soberly.

            “Yes. His name was Rustem Aurelius and he was the son of Arius Aurelius, grandson of the Hero of Kvatch and Grandmaster of the Blades,” Ulfric confessed with a heavy sigh. “It was a poor match on either side but Arius wouldn’t allow them to divorce, even after Rustem took up with a Breton Blade named Delphine. Arius was… mad and bad to know. He rebelled against the White-Gold Concordat and tried to get your grandfather’s assistance, but between Arius’ insults and the understanding now wasn’t the time, Dengeir refused. The Blades died and we barely escaped with Delphine, of all people.”

            “Somehow, Ulfric, I think this Callaina’s a little bitter,” Ralof finally said. “She had plenty to say about us not being around when the Bruma Nords needed help.”

            Bjarni couldn’t find the words. His… sister. He and Egil had an older sister. One who had seen unimaginable horrors as an Imperial orphan before being forcibly conscripted into the Legion, where only Talos knew what atrocities she’d had to witness and perform. No wonder she clung to the rags and crumbs given to her by the Synod. What other choice had she been given?

            “We had no reason to believe she survived and by the time it mattered… Well, Dengeir wanted to pretend the Aurelii marriage never happened because my Da wouldn’t have approved of me marrying a woman who might still be wed,” Ulfric continued softly. “The main question is whether Callaina is a danger to our cause or not. I don’t think we could count on her loyalty, not if she’s a member of the Synod, and she could wreak a lot of damage if she rejoined the Legion. The Synod trains its mages well.”

            “How the _fuck_ can you say that?” Bjarni asked, utterly appalled. “She’s my fucking sister-“

            “She’s a potential liability to the cause,” Ulfric said, having the grace to look disgusted himself. “If she delivered that message through you, she damn well knew who you were, Bjarni. I doubt she’s thinking of you as her brother. Not if she’s anything like your mother.”

            Bjarni shook his head in disgust. “I’m going to Whiterun. Gerdur thinks someone should warn Balgruuf about the dragon anyway, so I might as well do it while trying to convince my sister that we’re not the enemy.”

            “Bjarni-!”

            But he’d already left the tent.


	4. Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and violence.

 

Giants. Skyrim had to have _giants_ on top of wolves, dragons and only Kynareth knew what other beasts. Callaina dual-cast Firebolts at the monster as it tried to trample a trio of fighters, two of them with bows and the other a greatsword that shone blue-silver in the sun, into the ploughed dirt of someone’s field. Soot-edged orange flame seared across grey-white flesh and the creature turned around, grumbling angrily in a guttural language. She took a deep breath, aimed for the eyes, and cast again. This time it roared in pain and the fighter with the greatsword took advantage to hamstring the monster, decapitating it with a single powerful blow when it fell to its knees.

            Callaina released her breath and eyed the city of Whiterun. It looked prosperous, though the crumbling front wall was concerning if the civil war were to come here. Knowing her mother, the Stormsword had already plotted the neutral Hold’s downfall.

            She should have kept her mouth shut. Bjarni and his rangy blond friend had meant well in their ignorance. Being cornered by Delphine and having a past best left buried flung in her face repeatedly had nettled Callaina’s temper and weakened her discretion. Now Sigdrifa undoubtedly knew that her unwanted daughter was alive and angry. Knowing the Stormsword, there were no doubt plans being made to deal with a potential threat to the rebels.

            Before she could pick up the pace and get to the city, the trio of fighters approached her. Two were women, a lithe redhead in armour that was little more that strategically placed bits of metal and leather and the other a brunette Colovian in polished scale with little sign of use, while the last was a behemoth of a Nord man with shaggy black hair and quicksilver-grey eyes in black-enamelled plate. “You handle yourself well for a mage,” the redhead remarked.

            “And just how _is_ a mage supposed to handle herself?” Callaina snapped in response. Iulia had warned her about the negative opinion Skyrim-born Nords had of mages, but to be thought a coward simply because of her arcane abilities was a bit much. The shock of Helgen and the complacency of eleven years in the Synod were wearing off. Skyrim was infinitely more dangerous than she realised and so she would have to act accordingly.

            “Most of the mages I’ve dealt with over the years preferred to cower when directly confronted, manipulate ordinary fighters with mind-altering sorceries, torment the souls of the innocent with necromancy, or act as if they are somehow more superior than any warrior simply because they wear robes and know a few spells,” the redhead responded coolly, visibly nettled by Callaina’s attitude. “Very few would have engaged a giant directly with little more than minor battle magics, even with three Companions to hold the beast’s attention.”

            “You’re making the assumption I have a clue what a ‘Companion’ is,” Callaina said dryly. “I served in the Anvil Third; I’ve worked in unison with soldiers before.”

            “Companions are not Legionnaires,” the redhead observed, “Though some of us have served in the Imperial ranks.”

            “We are the Companions of Jorrvaskr, the heirs of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred,” the large man said proudly after wiping off his greatsword and slinging it across his back. “For five thousand years we have continued the warrior-traditions of Atmora and protected Skyrim with our hearts and our blades.”

            “Ah,” Callaina said slowly. She vaguely remembered stories about Companions. From the little she’d heard of them, now she had the name, they were the reason the Fighters’ Guild didn’t have a presence in Skyrim. “I’m Aurelia Callaina, Journeyman Mage of the Synod.”

            The Colovian girl raised an eyebrow. “You’re of an age to be an Evoker,” she noted in the crisp accents of a noblewoman.

            “My grandfather was Arius,” Callaina said simply.

            “Oh.” To her credit, the Cyrod girl blushed.

            “Now _we’re_ the confused ones,” the redhead said.

            “Arius Aurelius was the last Grandmaster of the Blades,” the Colovian said before Callaina could. “He rebelled after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat and the Emperor let the Thalmor put the Blades down. It was… ugly.”

            Callaina sighed. “Yes, and now that my sordid family history has been aired, I have to go. Does anyone know the way to Mzulft from here?”

            “None of us do, but the archives at Jorrvaskr might have the answer,” the redhead answered. “I… apologise for my comments. I am Aela the Huntress. My fellow Companion is Farkas of the Hero-Twins and the whelp is Ria.”

            _No clan name for the Colovian?_ That was… interesting. “I’m sorry for my attitude. It’s been a horrendous couple of days. I don’t know if word’s come from Helgen-“

            “ _You_ were at Helgen?” Aela’s eyebrow shot up.

            “Yes, and yes, the dragon was real. Ulfric and his family escaped execution thanks to it.” Callaina shuddered and she couldn’t say what the reason was.

            “We better take you to Jarl Balgruuf,” Aela said. “Some folk in Whiterun saw the dragon and others are claiming they saw things. Given we had a bad batch of mead last week…”

            Callaina nodded. “I’ll come. I don’t think I’ll get to Mzulft today. I know it’s a dwarven ruin up in north-eastern Skyrim – Eastmarch, I was told.”

            Farkas pursed his lips. “Think I know which one it is. But I should check with my brother Vilkas. He’s our loremaster.”

            It was noon by the time they reached the gates of Whiterun. “Hold!” one of the guards announced. “No one’s allowed in the city because of the dragons.”

            Callaina sighed. “I came from Helgen. Your walls won’t defend you from something that demolished a Legion fortress in about fifteen minutes.”

            “And since when have Companions been banned from Whiterun?” Aela asked mildly. “This woman has held her own in combat with us. We will vouch for her courage.”

            The guards couldn’t open the gates soon enough.

            Inside, Whiterun was prosperous and peaceful in a way that was alien to Callaina. Oh, most of the cities in central and southern Cyrodiil had been rebuilt, and the east had been barely touched. But Anvil and Bruma had been totally broken, the former practically demolished, and an air of dispirited ruin hung over both towns. Bruma was probably the worst because the Altmer maintained a presence there, occasionally executing someone as a Talos worshipper. That someone was usually a person known to be defiant or unwilling to cooperate with the Thalmor.

            But this city with its three tiers and central marketplace and clean well-made buildings hadn’t been conquered in centuries, if ever. Most of the people were rangy blonds in bright garments and lush furs, but there was a generous smattering of Redguards, Imperials and Bosmer, with even a few Dunmer and an Altmer selling sorceries. Callaina found herself looking straight ahead as they climbed the stairs, walked between a dying tree and an overturned boat built into a mead-hall Farkas said was Jorrvaskr, and climbed another two flights of stairs to reach Balgruuf’s palace.

            Dragonsreach was easily the equal of Castle Bruma or Castle Anvil. Hold guards in saffron tabards greeted the Companions easily, casting askance looks at Callaina, and one opened the double doors on seeing them. The interior was golden-brown oak and grey stone, hung with rich tapestries and carpeted by Khajiit rugs, and a firepit dominated the central hall where a rangy blond man who looked a fair bit like Bjarni’s friend was arguing with a hook-nosed Niben-man.

            “If you sent troops to Riverwood and Rorikstead, the Jarls of the Reach and Falkreath will see that as a provocation and assume you’ve joined Ulfric’s side,” the Niben-man said unctuously.

            “Fuck the Jarls of the Reach and Falkreath,” Jarl Balgruuf said bluntly, in the same drawling accent she’d heard a few times since coming to Skyrim. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people!”

            “Well said, Jarl Balgruuf,” Aela approved as they approached the dais. “We’ve brought Aurelia Callaina, Journeyman Mage of the Synod and a survivor of Helgen to you. She might be able to give you and Farengar some critical intelligence.”

            “She could hardly give me less than some members of my court are demonstrating at the moment,” Balgruuf said dryly as his ice-blue eyes switched to Callaina. “So, you were at Helgen?”

            “Yes. I’m on a Synodic mission to deliver a certain component to a research team at Mzulft,” Callaina admitted. “Due to a certain mission being carried out in the Rift, I was kept at the Keep for a couple days by Tribune Iulia Narentia. General Tullius came in, having captured Ulfric Stormcloak, his wife Sigdrifa Stormsword, and their son Bjarni, and they were being lined up to the headman’s block when the dragon attacked.”

            “Convenient, but I doubt Ulfric would have made common cause with a dragon. Sigdrifa, yes, but not one who had studied the Thu’um at High Hrothgar,” Balgruuf observed. “What would a Synodic mage make of the return of the dragons?”

            “I’ve heard some of the old stories, both Nord and Akaviri,” Callaina admitted quietly. “I know this might be the end times. But I’ve heard mention of a Dragonborn.”

            “The Last Dragonborn, as Miraak was the First,” Balgruuf said quietly. “The Dragonborn will contend with Alduin World-Eater at the end of days, because they’re supposedly the only one capable of killing a dragon permanently.”

            The Jarl rose to his feet. “Thank you, Companions. I will have Avenicci compensate you appropriately. Aurelia-“

            “It’s Callaina,” she interrupted. “Aurelia is my clan name. I’m the last of the Aurelii.”

            Balgruuf’s eyebrow rose. “Oh? Irkand did us all a favour and got himself eaten by a draugr?”

            Callaina’s mouth tightened. “I’m the last of those who live under the name, for good or for ill. As a Knight of the Circle of Arkay, Irkand technically doesn’t have a clan name.”

            “Ah. Well, Callaina, I want you to come and meet my court wizard Farengar. He’s researching a matter related to dragons.”

            “Jarl, with all respect, I _have_ to deliver this component,” Callaina said with a sigh. “I’ve already lost days and the man in charge of the research team at Mzulft is the brother of the man who oversees promotions in the Synod. My grandfather’s poor choices have already stymied my progression. Once I’ve delivered the damned thing, I intend to devote my attention to the dragons. But this component is fairly time-critical.”

            “I understand and sympathise,” Balgruuf said. “But Farengar tells me that this matter will only take a day or two. It’s just a matter of finding someone free to go to a certain tomb and retrieve a certain artefact.”

            “We could do it,” Farkas suggested.

            “I’d prefer to keep you close in case a dragon attacks Whiterun,” Balgruuf admitted. He glanced back at Callaina. “Do this and I will personally give you a horse and directions to Mzulft. I’ve read of the place.”

            Callaina sighed and accepted the inevitable. “Fine.”

…

Bjarni wasn’t expecting Clairvoyance to guide him to his sister coming back from Whiterun. She was casting Clairvoyance herself, the blue spear of light pointing towards Bleak Falls Barrow, and walking along the road to Riverwood. “’Go find a map of dragon burials in a tomb crawling with zombies’, he says,” she muttered. “Bet the bastard’s never stepped foot outside a cosy workroom in his bloody life. Must be nice to have-“

            “Farengar’s always been a fat lazy bastard,” Bjarni agreed. “Probably why he became a mage in the first place.”

            Callaina’s fist clenched, killing the Clairvoyance spell. “Shouldn’t you be plotting to take over Skyrim or something?” she asked with an edge to her low pleasant voice.

            “That’s Mother’s job,” he admitted wryly. “The Empire’s got to go. But I’m not here to talk politics… Sister.”

            Her thick black eyebrows rose. “So why are you here?”

            “Because you’re my sister. If it’s any consolation, Mother fainted when I relayed your message. It was Father who told me what happened.” Bjarni spread his hands in a shrug. “He said that the family wing was on fire and they didn’t think you’d survived, so they grabbed what Talosian relics they could and ran for it.”

            “That alone tells me how little the Stormsword knew or cared about me,” Callaina said quietly. “I was capable of casting Oakflesh and Telekinesis by the age of eight. I made a little hollow near one of the windows and… well. I was found in the ashes of Cloud Ruler Temple and put into an Imperial workhouse. The rest is history.”

            Bjarni sighed. “You’re angry, I know. You’ve got every right to be. I… just came here for a promise, I guess. Father’s worried that you’ll join the Legion and fight against us. I want to believe that you’re a true Nord. You don’t have to fight for us. Just don’t fight against us.”

            “I have no intention of getting involved in your bloody civil war,” Callaina said flatly. “Leave me the hell alone and I’ll do the same to you.”

            “I’ll take that,” Bjarni said. “I’ll try to convince everyone else you’re not a danger to the cause.”

            “You should consider disassociating yourself from the Stormcloaks,” Callaina said softly. “I’ve seen what the Empire does to traitors, Bjarni. Tullius was being merciful by having a headsman there. Next time you’re captured, it’ll be the cross.”

            “We won’t lose,” he told her. “I appreciate the warning though.”

            “No, you don’t. Because you’re young and you think you’re on the side of righteousness.” Callaina shook her head. “Goodbye, Bjarni.”

            She pressed on towards Bleak Falls Barrow without a backwards glance.


	5. Barrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, corpse desecration and mentions of torture, imprisonment, child abuse and child abandonment.

 

It wasn’t until an arrow whizzed past Callaina’s head that she remembered bandits were living at Bleak Falls Barrow, the same ones who’d stolen Lucan’s golden claw. She dismissed the Clairvoyance spell and called Ironflesh, magicka hardening her skin. Before another arrow could come in her direction, she cast a Firebolt at the irregular patch of grey-brown against the white-brown of a tree. Judging by the burst of orange flame and cry of pain, she’d struck.

            She ducked behind a bush as another arrow sailed overheard. The sun was amber-red as it sailed towards dusk, so her vision wasn’t quite the best, but Nord bandits delighted in taunting their enemies. That made it easy for her to lean to the side and throw an ice spike at the archer, impaling her in the shoulder. The burned bandit at the tree swore and called for his colleague in the tower to get his ass down here because there might be a mage around here. What, the spells didn’t give it away?

            Eleven years in Bruma had gotten Callaina soft. If nothing else, she could have kept up the physical conditioning of a Legionnaire. And probably studied a few more Destruction spells. A fireball would be very useful right about now.

            “I’ll mount your head on my wall!” announced the armoured brute as he charged down the stairs and across the bridge. “A true Nord never-“

            Callaina never discovered what a true Nord never did, because she flung some frost at the bridge and his boots skidded on it. A cry cut off by an ugly crunch suggested that the bandit lost the battle with gravity and the stony side of an uncaring mountain.

            The other two bandits roared with anger, the very air itself shimmering with the sound, and Callaina dove to the side. She’d heard of the Battle-Cry from other Nords but never seen or heard it herself; the Legion tended to downplay individual racial strengths in favour of unified action.

            Then another roar, this one more guttural and deadlier, shattered the air and struck the pair of bandits cleanly. They shrieked in fear and threw away their weapons to bolt away – only to sprout iron arrows in their backs, one after the other in a display of impressive archery.

            “Nice shooting,” her brother Bjarni told the Bosmer in studded leather armour as she turned around, still crouching behind the bush.

            “It was child’s play,” the white-haired wood elf said with a grin.

            Callaina stood up and dusted herself off. “I thought Stormcloaks hated elves,” she said tartly.

            “Some do. I’ve always gotten on well with the Dunmer and Bosmer who came through Windhelm,” Bjarni replied with a raised eyebrow. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

            She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thank you. I suppose you two are going to follow me into the tomb?”

            “The bandits took Lucan’s golden claw and I’m in love with his sister,” said the Bosmer. “I don’t particularly care about dragon stuff or even the loot.”

            “Faendal, this is Callaina. Callaina, this is Faendal,” Bjarni said. “Between the three of us, we should make short work of the bandits and draugr.”

            Callaina took a deep breath. “Have either of you had serious combat experience?”

            “I was a conscript in the Aldmeri army during the Great War,” Faendal admitted sourly. “As soon as I could, I deserted and got the hell to Skyrim.”

            “I’ve been trained to lead soldiers,” Bjarni said quietly. “I’ve seen skirmishing and raids. What of yourself, sister?”

            “The Anvil Third is the Colovian sword-fodder Legion,” she explained. “We were generally sent in as expendable troops or on menial missions like ogre extermination.”

            Bjarni’s mouth tightened in a half-familiar way. Callaina supposed their mother had looked like that when disgusted. “And you survived.”

            “And I survived. Being one of the Legion battlemages, such as we were, kept me out of the worst of it.” Callaina shrugged. “So how many bandits can we expect?”

            “More than three, less than ten,” Faendal said confidently. “Four of them hit Riverwood a couple weeks ago. It was mostly the Riverwood Trader and Alvor’s smithy that got hit; we’ve only got one cow and a couple goats, so there’s no point going after those, and lumber’s too hard to carry away.”

            “Resupply run,” Callaina said with a nod. “Alright, subtlety appears to be beyond bandits in Skyrim. Has anyone been up to Bleak Falls Barrow?”

            “I have,” Faendal confirmed. “There’s two flights of stairs meeting in the middle with a third going to the main door. There will be two or three bandits keeping watch – they have a great view from the road.”

            “And it’s getting dark,” Bjarni observed, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Who’s up for a little night ambush?”

            They walked up towards the main tomb as dusk fell blue around them. Callaina activated Night Eye, a useful little spell taught to her by an Ohmes-raht Khajiit in the Anvil Third, and watched the fiery shapes of three bandits patrol the stairs. “One’s up near the entrance, the second is patrolling the main stairs, and the third is on some kind of outlook to the left of us,” she murmured as they crouched behind snowberry bushes.

            “I see the one on the outlook,” Faendal said, unlimbering his hunting bow and drawing an iron arrow. “I didn’t know Detect Life had that kind of range.”

            “It doesn’t. I know an Alteration spell called Night Eye,” Callaina said as the world returned to a gloomy indigo-grey. “It lets you see in heat vision like the Khajiit do.”

            “That could be useful for hunting,” Faendal observed. He drew the arrow back, lined up the shot, and released in an easy motion. In the distance, someone gave a choked cry and fell.

            “Bori!” cried out one of the other bandits, running towards the outlook. Faendal sighted again and fired. Bori’s friend died in a similar manner.

            “I’m going to find whoever did this!” snarled the last bandit, a darker shape against the shadowed stairs. Callaina dual-cast Firebolt, two streaks of orange flame leaving light and smoke in their wake. The bandit just avoided them – more through dumb luck than anything else – but Bjarni’s ice spike took him in the eye as it had Iulia.

            Callaina vomited suddenly at the memory. Her brother had executed the Tribune with the same calm callousness as any Thalmor agent. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

            But years of living in Bruma allowed her to throttle down the nausea, wipe her mouth and nod tightly to his inquiry. She rose dry-eyed and dry-mouthed, climbing up the stairs as Faendal and Bjarni looted the dead. The Bosmer might come out with a better bow and arrows after this.

            The doors opened at her touch, iron grating against stone, and she plunged into the Barrow.

…

The smouldering charred corpses of the two bandits standing guard in the main chamber – plus two covered in skeever bites – greeted Bjarni and Faendal as they entered. Callaina was pressing a hand to a nearby chest, palm glowing green until the lock rusted away. Alteration was the manipulation of the material, he remembered Wuunferth lecturing, and it was the close cousin of the healing part of the Restoration School.

            “She’s a pretty competent mage,” Faendal observed as he palmed some coin from the nearest corpse. “Nothing flashy like most of the Thalmor I know, but some minor spells used very effectively.”

            “The Synod trains its people well,” Bjarni agreed. “But she’s not as hardened as I’d think a Legion veteran would be.”

            “Maybe it’s been a while.” Faendal shrugged. “I don’t think she liked you using magic. Do you think it’s professional rivalry?”

            “No.” Bjarni sighed. “We met just after I’d killed a Tribune she knew with an ice spike. Iulia Narentia was a piece of work, but I suppose Callaina never saw that.”

            “Let’s get this over and done with,” Callaina said over her shoulder. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can get to Mzulft.”

            There was one more bandit, a Dunmer trapped in a spider’s web as dinner for the very unhappy giant spider that came down from the ceiling. Callaina bombarded the beast with firebolts until it fell in a flaming heap at her feet, multiple eyes regarding her accusingly. Bjarni shuddered – he hated frostbite spiders – and went to free the bandit.

            The Dunmer thanked him by running away and getting cut down by awakened draugr. Bjarni sighed and drew his axe. At least draugr were relatively easy to kill.

            Callaina’s knowledge of Restoration didn’t just include healing spells, it seemed, as she was able to drive away most of the weaker draugr with Turn Undead so that Faendal could shoot them in the back. They stopped twice for her to drink a magicka potion, Faendal to collect ancient steel arrows that were better than his iron ones, and Bjarni to rest his arms. Traps were evaded except for the swinging axes and much to Bjarni’s awe, Callaina held them back with Telekinesis until they got past, only earning a gash from one she couldn’t avoid entirely.

            They made it to the sanctum where one of the legendary Word Walls curved around the sarcophagus of the man buried here. “’Here lies the guardian/keeper of dragonstone/and a force of unending rage and darkness’,” Bjarni read as he neared the wall. “Dragonstone?”

            “Map of the dragon burials in Skyrim,” Callaina said tightly. “It was a race between the Akaviri Dragonguard and the Dragon Cult as to who could collect and preserve the most dragon lore.”

            She went over to the word wall, touching ‘force’ – which glowed to Bjarni’s eyes. “My old tutor Esbern would have killed to see this,” she murmured. “He believed dragons would come back even though the others laughed at him.”

            Faendal’s cry saved them both from being brained by the king-draugr that arose from its sarcophagus, a stone tablet sewn to its chest. “I’m guessing that’s the Dragonstone,” Bjarni said as he fell back, raising his axe.

            “I’d say so,” Callaina said as she threw fire at the undead, casting a flesh-hardening spell with the other. It laughed cruelly and Shouted – Unrelenting Force. The sorceress was knocked off the platform and the king-draugr shuffled over to finish her off.

            Bjarni swore and threw his axe at it. The weapon landed in the draugr’s back, making it stagger, and Faendal’s arrow to the knee brought it to earth. Two ice spikes to the other leg crippled it.

            Callaina pulled herself back up to the platform, her robes torn and skin scraped, and cast Flames with both hands until the eerie ice-blue of its eyes died. The crystalline spell hardening her skin faded with a flash of pale blue-green light and she fell to her knees, panting. “Zombies can’t use magic!”

            “It’s not a zombie. It’s a draugr,” Bjarni corrected, getting a healing potion from his pouch. “I don’t know how the ancients did it, but Egil says the average draugr is about the same level as a relatively complex zombie raised by modern necromancers.”

            “A student of necromancy, is he?” she asked, waving away the offered potion.

            “Only in that he spent a few years with the Vigilants of Stendarr. I think if he had his choice, he’d be one.” Bjarni tucked away the potion again. If Callaina wanted to be stubborn, he wouldn’t push matters. “So Farengar gets the Dragonstone. What then?”

            “Balgruuf gives me the horse and directions he promised,” Callaina said, rising unsteadily to her feet. “Once they have the focusing crystal at Mzulft, I can spare some time to research the dragons.”

            “Would the Synod be of any use in dealing with them?” Bjarni asked.

            Callaina snorted. “Not Paratus Decimius!”

            Faendal found the trove of grave goods. “This one had to be important,” he said, drawing out a tarnished dwarven bow. “Mind if I keep this?”

            “Help yourself.”

            Callaina declined the loot, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “I don’t loot the dead,” was all she said.

            “And how will you survive after reaching Mzulft?” Bjarni countered. “The dead are beyond caring.”

            “I don’t loot the dead.” Her tone was final.

            Bjarni shook his head and wrapped his half of the loot with embalming linen. The Whiterun Stormcloak camp could use the weapons and gold while Avulstein Grey-Mane, its quartermaster, could sell the rest in Whiterun.

            They found themselves outside Lake Ilinata, the sky strewn with stars and the moons hanging heavy over the mirror-still water. “Let’s head back to Riverwood,” Bjarni said. “We can go to Whiterun in the morning.”

            “You can if you want,” Callaina said shortly. “I’ll return to Whiterun and give this to Farengar immediately.”

            “Is my presence that unpleasant?” Bjarni asked, nettled. “This is the second time you’ve just decided to piss off with nary a thank you.”

            “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, little brother, so wonderful to meet you after you murdered someone in cold blood in front of me’,” she retorted sarcastically. “Iulia could have been a friend, you know, but that chance is gone.”

            “She oversaw the interrogation and torture of Stormcloaks and a couple poor bastards who were in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Bjarni reminded her.

            “Because you idiots keep on rebelling! Talos is dead! The Blades are dead!” Callaina punctuated each statement by stabbing the air with a pointed finger. “Why am I supposed to give a flying fuck about a family I never met, parents who abandoned me or a cause that got most of those I know killed? _Mother ran away and left me to suffer the Empire’s vengeance!_ ”

            Bjarni snorted. “What about your father, huh?”

            “He was in Hammerfell and I just found out I have another brother on that side too,” Callaina said flatly. “If I catch him before he leaves Skyrim, you best bet I’ll have plenty to say.”

            “If you don’t mind me saying, your family dynamics are pretty fucked up,” Faendal observed.

            Callaina’s laughter was harsh. “You don’t know the half of it, Faendal.”

            She cradled the Dragonstone closer to her chest. “I won’t fight your Stormcloaks unless they attack me,” she said. “If there were any kind of justice, you and the Legion would kill each other and leave the rest of us in peace.”

            Bjarni couldn’t respond to that and Callaina didn’t hang around to hear it.


	6. Tactics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Loads of historical head-canon. Trigger warning for death and violence.

 

“You look like you’ve fought an entire war by yourself,” Farengar remarked as Callaina entered the workroom and dumped the Dragonstone on his desk. “I didn’t think Bleak Falls Barrow would be too difficult for a Synodic mage.”

            “It would have been nice to know your zombies Shout and cast frost magic,” she informed him testily. “I could have prepared better.”

            “Ah, my apologies. I genuinely thought, given your basic understanding of draconic history, you’d have been aware it was an old Dragon Cult site.” Farengar moved the Dragonstone to the side to reveal an ancient leather-bound tome embossed with angular runic writing. “The ‘Holdings of Jarl Gjalund’ allows me to translate the map and locate various dragon burial mounds – at least in what is now called Whiterun Hold. Are you familiar with Atmoran runes?”

            “No,” Callaina admitted with a sigh. “The Synod is pretty firmly centred on Heartland and Aldmeri magical principles, as codified by Galerion the Mystic. I have some familiarity with Akaviri sorceries, but little experience with the Nord variation.”

            “If you make your way to the College at Winterhold, Tolfdir would be pleased to rectify that,” Farengar said, opening the book. “Now, the only confirmed burial mound in Whiterun is the one outside Rorikstead, which is on our western border. But using that as a reference, I can write to Urag gro-Shub at the College and he can send me copies of later Merethic Era, early First Age records.”

            “And then you can cross-reference with the Dragonstone,” Callaina observed. “How much has Skyrim changed since this was carved?”

            Farengar traced the southern border, which was oddly lacking in the southwest and bulged south. “Before the reign of Tiber Septim, Falkreath was part of the Colovian Estates and much of County Bruma was counted part of Skyrim. That’s why you might have seen an old Nord tomb or two in the southern Jeralls.”

            “I know that much,” Callaina admitted. “But during the reign of Versidue-Shaie, County Bruma was effectively Akaviri territory under the control of the Kogane no Seshi, the Golden Warriors… who would become the Colovian Gens known as the Aurelii.”

            “I didn’t actually know that,” Farengar said with some surprise.

            “It’s ancestral history. I kind of had to,” Callaina observed wryly.

            The glowering ash-grey features of Irileth appeared in the doorway. “I see you’ve returned,” the Dunmer said darkly.

            “No thanks to the draugr of Bleak Falls Barrow,” Callaina told her.

            “You look done in,” Irileth noted. “The Jarl gave word that you’re to be given a bed and board for the evening.”

            “I appreciate it.” Callaina sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I should be honest and tell you I had some help. My maternal half-brother Bjarni invited himself and a Bosmer hunter named Faendal along for the trip.”

            “Bjarni Ulfricsson had a hand in this?” Irileth’s red eyes narrowed. “Are you an agent of the Stormcloaks?”

            “My allegiance is to the Synod, as I said,” Callaina told her. “I wasn’t expecting a bevy of rebellious relatives.”

            The womer smiled thinly. “I suppose not. I was an orphan. Life is much simpler that way.”

            She nodded to the stairs. “We can discuss your reward tomorrow. Your pallet is in the servants’ quarters.”

            Callaina nodded and reminded herself that a free bed was a free bed, no matter where it might be.

            The next morning, she joined the servants in a quick wash and breakfast of porridge before climbing up to the great hall. Fianna, one of the maids, had given her a tan homespun dress to wear while her mage robes were getting washed. Callaina would need to spend an hour or two mending the tears in them in such a way as not to look bedraggled. A Synodic mage always looked presentable.

            Balgruuf was lounging on his throne, a gilded affair carved with intricate interlaced stallions, as Irileth reported troop allocations. More soldiers had been dispatched to Riverwood and Rorikstead while bucket chains were being set up in the city itself. Avenicci, the hook-nosed Steward, was concerned about the upcoming harvest and taxes. Whiterun was neutral and while it controlled the flow of trade between most of the Holds, it was vulnerable as most of its borders were open grassland. The Legion soldiers had apparently withdrawn a couple years ago and most of the abandoned fortifications were occupied by bandits. The walls and roads were crumbling from lack of maintenance.

            _If this happened in Cyrodiil, the Elder Council would have the Counts’ heads on platters for the Emperor’s pleasure,_ Callaina thought grimly as she took up a position to the side of the hall. _Is Skyrim rebelling for more than a dead god?_

“Aurelia Callaina.” Balgruuf’s drawling tenor echoed across the hall. “Irileth tells me you achieved what was asked of you with some… help.”

            “Yes,” she admitted. “Bjarni invited himself along. Faendal was there to retrieve the golden dragon’s claw for his lady-love Camilla.”

            “The girl’s finally made a choice? Good,” Balgruuf said with a nod. “Him and Sven’s little feud was affecting lumber production. Maybe it will improve now.”

            “I honestly couldn’t say,” Callaina said with a shrug. “I have my own duties.”

            “Yes, I haven’t forgotten the promise I made.” Balgruuf slouched back in his throne, stroking his long goatee. For a man who was surely in his late forties at least, he wasn’t a bad sort, if one favoured the blond and arrogant. “The horse and directions to Mzulft will be provided. I believe the Companions have a job up that way and they feel somewhat indebted to you, so the Hero-Twins will join you for part of the journey.”

            “Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf,” Callaina said with a dip of the head and a slight curtsey. “Once my robes are clean, I’ll be ready to leave.”

            “Have you considered your future once this component is delivered to the research team?” he asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

            “Yes. I will be searching for information on the dragons unless Paratus has need for me at Mzulft,” she admitted. “Your Farengar is trained in the Nord tradition, whereas I have some knowledge of the Akaviri lore. Once the dragon crisis is resolved, I’m hoping that the Council will promote me to Evoker, preferably with command of the Bruma chapterhouse.”

            His eyebrow rose. “You are that loyal to the Synod?”

            “I’ve been part of them for eleven years. My ambitions and needs aren’t grandiose, by any means.” Callaina shrugged. “Perhaps the Synod will consider expansion into Skyrim pursuant to the Legion’s victory over the Stormcloaks.”

            “You think the Empire will win?” Irileth asked.

            “I don’t know what you call him around here, but in Cyrodiil, Tullius is formally named the Emperor’s Hammer and informally nicknamed the Imperial Nutcracker,” Callaina explained. “He broke the Red Armada off the Gold Coast, suppressed the Blackmarsh Insurgency in County Leyawiin and has thrown back a half-dozen ‘raids performed by Khajiiti and Bosmer renegades’ over the past twenty years. The Bruma Fourth is the Legion they send in when rapid response and unconventional tactics are required. No matter how great Ulfric and the Stormsword think themselves, Tullius will counter any tactic of theirs and return it with interest.”

            She sighed. “I’ve tried talking some sense into Bjarni but he won’t listen.”

            “The Stormcloaks have some valid complaints, above and beyond the White-Gold Concordat,” Balgruuf said quietly. “And I think Tullius doesn’t appreciate the part that weather and terrain will play in the Old Holds. The Rift is almost as temperate as Falkreath or Whiterun, but Eastmarch is mostly volcanic tundra, dense forest and permafrost, while the Pale and Winterhold are locked in snow year-round. Believe me when I say that Ulfric, and more importantly the Stormsword, know how to use those factors to their advantage.”

            “If Ulfric is so right and mighty, why haven’t you joined forces with him?” Callaina asked flatly.

            “Because I see the pros and cons of both sides,” Balgruuf said softly. “Because I see the only winner of this war will be the Thalmor.”

            “On that, we agree.” Callaina sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have no desire to meddle in politics. So far as I’m concerned, the Stormsword can get lost in a bog for all I care. She chose Talosian relics over me at Cloud Ruler. You don’t forgive or forget that kind of thing.”

            “On that, we can agree,” Balgruuf said dryly. “Come, let us talk to Farengar and see what he’s figured out from the Dragonstone.”

…

Ulfric and Sigdrifa had returned to Eastmarch by the time Bjarni got back to the Stormcloak camp. “Callaina won’t fight us if we leave her alone,” he told Ralof and Hjornskar tersely. “But she’s convinced the Legion will win.”

            “Cyrods generally are,” Hjornskar noted. “And that’s what your sister fundamentally is.”

            “I suppose so.” Bjarni sighed and shrugged off the frost-enchanted greatsword he’d picked up in Bleak Falls Barrow. “She’s bitter. More than bitter. The Emperor didn’t have Mother or her father to hand, so they took it out on her. Iulia Narentia was also a friend of hers, apparently.”

            Ralof spread his hands helplessly. “She did say that she’d have tried to talk everyone down.”

            “I couldn’t take that chance, particularly after what we saw in the cells at Helgen Keep.” Bjarni laid the greatsword down. “I’m angry… but I can’t be angry at her, not really.”

            “Put the blame where it belongs,” Ralof agreed softly. “The Empire has broken many Nords to its hand, turned our own strengths against us to make slaves of the First Men through loyalty and stubbornness.”

            Bjarni nodded. The hearth-man made a lot of sense. “So we must fight our own kin to save us all?”

            “It has always been thus,” Hjornskar said grimly.

            Ralof handed Bjarni some bread and cheese. “Eat that and get some sleep. I have an idea I want to discuss tomorrow.”

            The idea, Bjarni discovered as they washed themselves with snow from the peak of High Hrothgar the next morning, was to blood the newbloods sent to Hjornskar by Galmar on the bandits of Whiterun Hold. Several substantial camps and even forts were held by the renegades, preying on the farmers and traders. If it succeeded, they could not only show Balgruuf that the Stormcloaks were dedicated to Skyrim’s security, they could disperse two hundred troops between the various locations.

            Bjarni nodded in approval. “Let’s start close to home. I want Valtheim Towers and White River Watch under our control by the end of tomorrow’s sunset.”

            Ralof grinned. “Good. Hajvarr’s been pissing me off for a while now.”

            Hjornskar led the sortie to Valtheim Towers while Bjarni and Ralof took White River Watch. The hearth-man had trained with Hajvarr under Galmar until the warrior went rogue, taking a dozen deserters with him. The irregular warfare that Ulfric’s huscarl drilled them in was perfect for a group of bandits.

            It was twilight as they arrived at White River Watch. Used to night raids, Ralof went in first and executed the guards with nary a sound, then waved the other five in. This wasn’t battle, it was execution, and stealth was the key.

            “Is that you, Rodulf?” demanded an old man with milky eyes at the front.

            “Yeah,” Ralof drawled.

            “Boss wants to talk to you.”

            “Trust me, I have plenty to say.”

            “Wait, you’re not-“ The blind man collapsed, half-turned in his seat, as Torjon neatly brained him.

            “I thought Hajvarr was smarter than this,” Ralof observed softly.

            “Sounds like success has made him complacent,” Bjarni said with a grin. “Let’s cure him of the notion.”

            It was obvious that most of the initial deserters were dead or gone, if the dregs that tried to fight them were anything to go by. Jakruz the Orc, a noted dog-tamer, died harder than his friends and they put the starving wolf in the cage out of its misery. From the bandits’ gear alone, Avulstein could outfit most of the newbloods with good iron weapons. Hajvarr, of course, still had his steel armour and enchanted steel gauntlets.

            By the time they reached the ledge for which the cave system was named, Hajvarr awaited them. “Run out of Legionnaires to fight?” he sneered.

            “Nope. We’re just requisitioning your goods for the war effort,” Ralof drawled.

            Hajvarr raised his battleaxe. “In your dreams, Ralof!”

            Bjarni cast frost at his feet just as his sister had at Bleak Falls Barrow. The bandit leader jumped over the ice-slick stone with a contemptuous snort. “Is that the best you can do-?”

            Ralof’s warhammer turned his head into red ruin in that moment where he landed but was still unsteady.

            “You should have stayed with us a bit longer,” the blond observed as the life left Hajvarr’s body. “You might have learned something.”

            There were no fatalities or even major injuries among the Stormcloaks. They stripped everything useful from the cave, stationed Torjon and Helga Hard-Heart there for the moment, and returned to the camp as the stars glittered above. Galmar’s training had really paid off.

            Bjarni was drinking his first flagon of mead when the dragon swooped over and breathed fire on the Hold guards below.


	7. Sahloknir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and corpse desecration. Keld-Nar is a mod by Arthmoor.

 

“I thought there were bandits at the Towers,” observed Vilkas, the lean mean twin of Farkas, in the drawling accent Callaina had come to learn was native to central Skyrim. “Those look like Stormcloaks to me.”

            Callaina shielded her eyes against the noonday sun. “There’s a row of bodies hanging from the bridge over the river. Perhaps they were the bandits.”

            “Balgruuf’s gonna be pissed when he finds out Ulfric controls his eastern border,” Farkas remarked laconically. “Well, come on then. We’ve still got a ways to go before we reach Cragwallow Slope.”

            They rode down to the Towers, which were… well… two towers connected by a bridge over the White River. A wheat-blond man in bearskins stepped forward as they approached, resting an iron greataxe across his shoulders. “Hail, Hero-Twins!” he greeted. “What brings you this way?”

            “We’ve got a job in Eastmarch,” Vilkas responded calmly. “Have the Stormcloaks taken up guard duty or are you trying to put us out of work?”

            “Ralof’s idea,” the bearskin-clad man answered. “Were you meant to deal with this lot?”

            “No, but we’d planned to,” Farkas rumbled. “They stole Amren’s ancestral sword. Curved, silver hilt, Redguard style. He couldn’t pay us in money but he knows a few Yokudan techniques Vilkas is dyin’ to learn.”

            The officer nodded to one of the other Stormcloaks, who ran into the tower. “Take it with our blessings. Amren ibn Faisal has always been a friend to my family.”

            “We appreciate it,” Vilkas growled.

            “Are mages joining the Companions now?” the officer continued, eyeing Callaina warily.

            “If Callaina wanted to, she’d be welcome,” Farkas told him. “She took on a giant with piddly little fire spells so I could kill the beast.”

            “Your brother didn’t mention that,” the officer observed, still regarding her.

            “It was before the third time we met,” she said calmly. “As I told him at the Barrow, leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”

            “It’s a sad thing to see a Nord acting like a Cyrod,” he said. “Maybe in the Old Holds you’ll learn what it is to be a true Nord.”

            “I certainly wouldn’t have learned it from the Stormsword,” she said flatly. “She decided Talosian relics were worth more than me.”

            Much to her surprise, the man nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me. Stay out of the war and we won’t be your enemies.”

            “I have no intention of fighting anyone. I just understand the realities of the situation.”

            “Do you?” He looked more amused than anything else.

            The Stormcloak arrived with Amren’s sword. Farkas plucked it from her hands and belted it to his waist. “Gods guide you.”

            “And you, Hero-Twins.” The officer nodded and stepped out of the way.

            They were across the bridge and halfway down the hill before Vilkas spoke. “He already knew who you were.”

            “I’m sure,” Callaina agreed. “I intend to go to Mzulft, that’s all. I don’t even want to be within a mile of my mother if I can possibly help it.”

            Farkas chuckled. “When we reach the crossroads before Windhelm’s bridge, you will be. Don’t worry, I’m sure the birds won’t drop dead from shock.”

            They passed a lumber mill and another bridge, following a long road that ran across the volcanic tundra Balgruuf had mentioned. From here, she could see an unlovely blocky lump on the horizon that had to be Windhelm. It seemed right for her mother, utilitarian and uncompromising.

            A tawny wild cat with sabre-like teeth attacked, only to be killed easily by Vilkas, who was better even than his brother with a greatsword. They stopped to skin it and so by the time they reached Kynesgrove, about a half-day’s walk from Mzulft according to Vilkas, it was two hours past dark.

            Callaina dismounted and they left their horses under what passed for a stable around here. The inn was much like the Sleeping Giant back in Riverwood but the rough crowd were sprinkled with Dunmer and even two Colovian women. “Good dark ale here,” Farkas remarked as they approached the innkeeper, a dark-haired, bronze-skinned woman. “And mead straight from Riften.”

            “If it isn’t the Hero-Twins,” the innkeeper said with a wry smile. “Did they run out of mead at Jorrvaskr?”

            “There’s witches and warlocks at Cragwallow Slope,” Vilkas told her.

            “Yeah, the folks from Keld-Nar sent word to Jarl Ulfric about it,” she confirmed. “I’m guessing Jorleif decided it was cheaper to hire a couple Companions than send a troop of soldiers.”

            “Dunno who put the request in,” Farkas admitted. “Iddra, this is Callaina of the Synod. Callaina, this is Iddra, the best cook in Eastmarch.”

            “Nice to meet you,” Callaina said awkwardly.

            “You too. I guess if you’re goin’ up against Daedra-loving, soul-sucking warlocks, having a mage on your side is a good idea,” Iddra observed.

            Callaina pursed her lips. “They’d been escorting me for part of the way to Mzulft, but if there’s necromancers in that cave, by the laws of the Synod I’m bound to do something about it.”

            “Synod?” said a dark-haired Dunmer woman at the bar. “You’re a long way from Cyrodiil.”

            “Research project,” Callaina admitted. “The idiots up at Mzulft didn’t take cold into account for a certain component, so they sent someone back to Cyrodiil for a replacement. Since I happen to be a Nord and a competent Journeyman, I got the job of bringing it to them.”

            “Yes, I know the Synodic markings. Alteration, eh? It’s always a pleasure to talk shop with a fellow adept.” She patted the stool beside her. “Dravynea Stoneweaver. I’m the reason these idiots haven’t had the mine fall on their heads.”

            “Are you the one who wrote the treatise on the magicka-dampening effects of basalt?” Callaina asked as she took a seat. The twins shrugged and went to a corner table.

            “Yes. Half of Eastmarch is basalt and Windhelm was built from it.” Dravynea sounded pleased. “Have you any published articles?”

            Callaina laughed a little sourly. “I have a mention in Gavros Plinius’ seminal work on crystalline refraction. My grandfather irritated the Emperor and the Synod’s never let me forget it.”

            “Yes, the politics of the Synod is irritating to say the least. I must say that the College of Winterhold is apolitical. Disorganised and a little haphazard, but apolitical.” Dravynea waved over Iddra. “Drink? I do recommend the dark ale. The wine tastes like horker’s piss.”

            “Then I’ll take the dark ale.” Callaina accepted the flagon from Iddra and sipped it cautiously. It was… fruity.

            “Snowberries,” Iddra said smugly.

            “It’s a pleasant change. Most ale in Cyrodiil tastes like the inside of a gladiator’s boot.” Callaina saluted the innkeeper with the flagon.

            Iddra poured one for Dravynea and went over to serve the twins. The Dunmer drank half the flagon in one pull, smacking her lips. “Almost as good as shein,” she said. “So, do you work with gems and stone then?”

            “No, I’m usually in charge of alchemy and enchantment at the Bruma chapterhouse,” Callaina confessed. “I’m hoping getting this crystal to Paratus Decimius – and some independent research on these bloody dragons – will get me promoted to Evoker.”

            “You should really consider the College,” Dravynea advised. “Several of the court wizards are old and it’s a comfortable post. If I didn’t have family in Keld-Nar…”

            “I thought mages were despised in Skyrim,” Callaina pointed out.

            “It depends from Hold to Hold and what School you specialise in. Wuunferth the Unliving, Ulfric’s court wizard, is known to practice necromancy in combat situations but otherwise despises Conjuration.” Dravynea smirked. “It’s legal for a recognised court wizard to raise the enemy dead on the battlefield as to assist his Jarl.”

            “Lovely,” Callaina said sardonically. “My main School is Alteration, but I have knowledge of Restoration and Destruction, with a couple minor Illusion spells. As I said, I’m responsible for alchemy and enchantment.”

            Dravynea nodded wisely. “You could almost pick your Hold. Wylandriah of the Rift’s almost getting to the point of being dismissed due to incompetence, Madena of the Pale’s swearing she wants to return to High Rock, and Wuunferth is ancient.”

            Callaina wrinkled her nose. “If Farengar’s anything to go by, I’m not self-important enough to call myself a-“

            The earth shook as something uttered guttural words that sounded much too familiar for Callaina’s comfort. “Dravynea,” she said calmly. “Round up everyone and get them into the mine or a cellar.”

            “Why?” the mage asked.

            “That’s a dragon out there.” Callaina looked across the inn to the twins. Farkas was already rising from his seat while Vilkas was lowering his flagon.

            “You know dragons?” Dravynea asked.

            “I survived Helgen. Get into the cellar or the mine _now_.” She’d raised her voice in a commanding tone.

            “And here I thought it’d be boring,” Vilkas said with a grin.

            Callaina regarded him sourly. “Dragons are hard to kill. Even the Akaviri Dragonguard needed a lot of magic to pull it off.”

            Outside, the black spiky form of the dragon she feared was Alduin hovered over the crown of the hill where the dragon mound had to be. “Slen Tiid Vo!” he roared. By the time they reached the path, rocks were already flying from the force of the mound’s opening. Callaina simply dual-cast Telekinesis, throwing half to one side and half to the other. Alduin laughed and took to the night sky.

            The resurrected dragon was half-fleshed by the time she got up there. “Zu’u Sahloknir,” mocked the unholy creature.

            “Zu’u Akaviri!” Callaina retorted. “My ancestors turned yours into boots!”

            “Bruniik? Geh.” The dragon was almost reborn now. Callaina threw blue-green lightning at it and the monster’s laughter shook the hill. “You are brave, little Akaviri. Alduin will feast on your soul in Sovngarde.”

            As one, Farkas and Vilkas flanked the dragon as Callaina stared into its unholy eyes. Sahloknir; Bjarni would know what it meant in Dragonish. “The Last Dragonborn will come,” she told the beast. “You may kill me and Alduin may very well feast on my soul. But know that I, Aurelia Callaina, have foretold your lord’s doom: to be bound and banished by the Last Dragonborn until the end of time.”

            She cast Ironflesh with one hand as the beast opened its mouth, throwing up a Greater Ward with the other. Its icy breath skidded across the glassy surface of the Ward and did nothing but frost her robes. Farkas and Vilkas began to hack at its wings, blue-silver swords she discovered were made of Skyforge Steel slicing through scale and bone.

            Sahloknir roared in fury and Callaina cast a lightning bolt right down its gullet. She dropped the Ward and dodged to the side, the dragon trying to lumber around in an attempt to track her.

            It tried to snap at her but she was too agile, even out of shape as she was. When it tried to snake its head around to snap at Vilkas, Farkas ran up alongside and started chopping into the serpentine neck.

            Callaina gathered the last of her magicka and threw a dual-cast Lightning Bolt at it. Sahloknir gargled in agony and then fell to the ground.

            When she stepped closer to make sure it was dead, magicka slowly creeping back, the flesh began to break and light filled her vision.

            “FUS!” she yelled just before succumbing to darkness.


	8. Mirmulnir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and mentions of genocide.
> 
> …

 

“Brit grah! I had forgotten what fine sport mortals provide.”

            “Hold fast!” Balgruuf’s Dunmer huscarl Irileth, a striking womer in late middle age, was yelling as Bjarni, Ralof and a few Stormcloaks came running. “Aim for the eyes!”

            “Aim for the wings!” Bjarni countermanded, clenching his fists as light washed out from him. Every soldier it touched lost their fear, grips on weapons growing firmer and stances steady. “Then aim for the eyes!”

            Someone gained the top of the smoking tower and was throwing javelins at the dragon as it strafed the plains of Whiterun with fire. Grass burned hot and fast. If this beast wasn’t brought down soon, it could starve Skyrim with a single attack.

            “May I ask why?” Irileth asked through gritted teeth.

            “Because once it’s grounded, it loses much of its mobility,” he told her. “We can dogpile the damned thing then.”

            “I suppose you survived Helgen. I would have preferred your sister here; she’s a competent mage.”

            Bjarni couldn’t argue with that. “I have a couple tricks up my sleeve. You focus on bringing the beast down and I’ll get him riled up.”

            He bolted for the tower, dodging smoking rocks, and came to the top where a scrawny woman in Whiterun guard’s uniform stood. “Aim your javelins for the wings,” he ordered her. “I know a few words in Dovahzul that will get his attention.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Bjarni paused a moment to review his knowledge of Dragonish before selecting the appropriate arrangement. “Listen to me, you son of a wyrm! You bed down in troll dung and you eat the carrion of unclean things that even Akatosh dare not name!”

            The dragon overshot the tower and ploughed into the snowberry hedge of Barley-Beard Farm, Gorran’s old home. It pulled itself from the ruined bushes and took to the air again. “Zu’u Mirmulnir, foolish joor! I will kill you and my lord Alduin devour your soul in Sovngarde!”

            “Your lord Alduin tried to kill me at Helgen and he managed to fail at that,” Bjarni retorted loudly. “I think your lord Alduin is even more pathetic than you, Mirmulnir. How weak are you, dovah, to serve such a pathetic sack of scales like Alduin?”

            Mirmulnir hovered above the tower, wings spread wide and chest presented to them. “Now would be a good fucking time to throw those javelins,” Bjarni suggested between gritted teeth.

            The guard obeyed, throwing the one in her hand at the right wing. The iron tip scored the wing-web and Mirmulnir instinctively pulled it back in. This, of course, sent him downwards to land at the base of the tower awkwardly. Bjarni went for the stairs, pulling his knife from its loop on the belt.

            “I’ve killed worse things than you,” Irileth taunted as she closed in. Mirmulnir breathed fire and the Dunmer laughed mockingly. “Is that the best you can do, you oversized lizard?”

            Bjarni leapt onto the dragon’s back, walking up its spine as lightning crackled across its skin from Irileth’s Sparks spell. He straddled the neck and drove his knife into the right eye and then the left, blinding Mirmulnir.

            After that, the battle was a formality, and soon the dragon was dead. Bjarni jumped off as the flesh began to crack and peel away in fire, energy flowing into him. FUS seared across his vision in light and he echoed the Word, Shouting a Whiterun guard off his feet. If looks could kill, Irileth’s would have sent him following Mirmulnir to Sovngarde.

            “YSMIR!” Ralof was the first to cry out and the other Stormcloaks followed him, banging their weapons and shields. “DOVAHSEBROM!”

            “DOVAHKIINNE!” echoed the sky as the Greybeards called out across Skyrim.

            _Wait, why are they speaking in plural?_ So far as Bjarni knew, there was only one Dovahkiin – Dragonborn – at a time.

            “Well, that’s that,” Irileth said dourly. “Somebody tell the Jarl what’s happened… whatever has happened.”

            “Bjarni is Dragonborn,” Ralof told her. “Like Talos Himself. Like Wulfharth and maybe Olaf and-“

            “I see,” Irileth interrupted grimly. “Balgruuf told me of this prophecy. Prophecy is only promise, not certainty; it is our actions that fulfil it.”

            Bjarni was able to find his voice again. “I apologise for just taking over like that, muthsera. I just-“

            Irileth sighed and shook her head. “You don’t need to apologise, Bjarni. In this instance, my tactics would have gotten a lot of people killed.”

            “So now what?” Ralof asked.

            The Dunmer sighed again. “You might as well come with me to Dragonsreach. This… changes everything.”

            Balgruuf was slouched on the Stallion Throne as Proventus Avenicci and his brother Hrongar argued. “So,” he said with little of his usual good grace, “I’m guessing one of you is the Dragonborn.”

            “I am,” Bjarni said calmly.

            “I suppose it could be worse. It could be your mother,” Balgruuf conceded with poor grace.

            “If my mother was Dragonborn, Alduin would already begging to surrender,” Bjarni observed wryly. “I’m not my mother and in many things, I’m not my father, so I won’t mince words or make threats.”

            “What do you mean?” Irileth demanded darkly.

            “I’m Dragonborn. I’ll have to go to High Hrothgar. But in between dragons, I will be using my Voice to help the Stormcloaks free Skyrim,” Bjarni replied bluntly. “Talos knew two Shouts before He lost his Voice. How many do you think I’ll learn before someone silences me?”

            “So what, you think you’re the new Talos?” Balgruuf drawled sardonically.

            “Nope. I’m one of the Last Dragonborn.” He grinned. “The other one might be Egil.”

            “Talos forfend,” Balgruuf said fervently. “He’s nigh as bad as the Stormsword.”

            The Jarl slumped back in his throne. “Your sister told me how competent Tullius is as a general. I told her that he’d never come up against the climate of the Old Holds. The dragons must take priority, boy, not your father’s pride or your mother’s ambitions.”

            “The Empire tortured and executed at least two innocent people at Helgen,” Bjarni said quietly. “Is all the gold in the world worth supporting _that_ , Balgruuf? If they win, the Thalmor will have more sway, and my sister told me of what happened to County Bruma. Imagine Whiterun Hold torn about by paranoia and fear, good people hanging from crosses because of their faith. Your sons turned into Legion lackeys and kinslayers, your daughter a pretty puppet for whatever rich Cyrod second son pays the provincial governor the most to become Jarl. Under the Medes, we would be Nords in name only. That’s if the Thalmor deigned to let us live.”

            Balgruuf blanched. “Is that Ulfric’s son or the Dragonborn talking?”

            Bjarni shrugged. “I don’t know.”

            Balgruuf frowned. “I think you’re exaggerating things. Dragonborn or not, I won’t be dictated to in my hall by a boy.”

            Bjarni shrugged again. “That’s your choice. If that’s all, Balgruuf, I’d like to return to Windhelm. I’ll need to tie things up before going to High Hrothgar for a week or so.”

            He turned away after giving the Jarl a brief nod. Whoever the other Dragonborn was, he could only pray they weren’t aligned to the Empire. That could get ugly.


	9. Kinship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, religious conflict, genocide, child abandonment and war crimes.

 

Rustem leaned on his bladed spear and watched the bulky sable-haired Nord in the dusty-blue tabard he’d quickly come to learn was the uniform of Eastmarch (and by extension the rebels calling themselves Stormcloaks) approach the gates. He had a few friends with them, the most dangerous of which had to be the rangy blond with the warhammer, and the crowds parted like the seas before the Numidium. Mutterings and whisperings of ‘Dragonborn’ and ‘Talos’ followed the young man. They’d seen the dragon’s skeleton outside the smouldering ruins of a watchtower to the west and heard the tales of Helgen in Falkreath Hold. It seemed that he lived in a time of prophecy.

            On closer inspection, the Dragonborn was broad-featured and square-jawed, a patchy beard covering his cheeks and brown-flecked aqua eyes flicking back and forward warily. Whatever message he’d delivered to Whiterun’s Jarl hadn’t gone down well judging by the escort of saffron-tabarded guards following him. Perhaps the boy had inherited Sigdrifa’s charming personality and scintillating social skills. Or maybe Balgruuf was an ornery old coot more interested in gold than freedom. Perhaps both. Nords had a gift for multitasking when it came to bringing about disasters.

            “The civil war just got a lot more interesting,” observed Beroc in his still-resonant baritone. Hammerfell’s Ambassador to Skyrim was still spry at nearly eighty, his whip-wiry frame swathed in the indigo and scarlet robes of his office. Rustem and his second wife Safiya had parted several years ago, but they were still amicable, and Beroc was still a trusted friend and adviser. “Do you think a Stormcloak victory is assured?”

            “Talos wiped out half an army with one Shout,” Rustem answered grimly. “But nothing in this world is assured.”

            The Dragonborn spotted the trio of Redguards, raising his hand in formal greeting. “Lord Beroc,” he greeted in a rumbling baritone. “You missed a battle for the ages.”

            Beroc smiled thinly. “Bjarni Ulfricsson, at my age, waking up every morning is a battle for the ages. Perhaps, of your courtesy, you could explain this Dragonborn business?”

            Bjarni shrugged. “It basically means I can suck out a dragon’s soul, learn Words of Power, and Shout without the extensive training of a Tongue.”

            “A Tongue?” Cirroc asked curiously.

            “Like a Sword-Saint, instead they Shout very loudly instead of manifesting a soul sword,” Bjarni told Rustem’s youngest with a grin. “Da’s the first Battle-Tongue since the early Third Age.”

            “Ah.” Beroc rubbed his goateed chin. “I’m told these dragons are a harbinger of the end times.”

            “They are. But me and the other Dragonborn will kick Alduin’s scaly arse back to whatever mound he crawled from,” Bjarni said confidently.

            Rustem’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought there was only one Last Dragonborn?”

            Bjarni shrugged again. “The Greybeards used the plural. I only pray the other one’s not an Imperial. That could be… problematic.”

            The dangerous blond standing beside Bjarni nodded to Rustem’s naginata. “Strange weapon for a Redguard. You lot are usually more partial to swords.”

            “I like to be unique,” Rustem said dryly. “Nice warhammer. Shock-enchanted?”

            “Yeah.” The blond grinned. “Ralof Storm-Hammer, hearth-man of Ulfric Stormcloak. You are?”

            “Rustem. I take care of inconvenient little problems for Beroc and he lets me stay at his house.”

            “Ha! Sounds like what I do for Ulfric,” Ralof said with a laugh.

            Bjarni’s eyes had narrowed. “Rustem Aurelius?”

            “I’m guessing your mother’s been telling tales,” Rustem answered with a sigh.

            “She never said a word to me,” Bjarni said softly. “Now Callaina… Callaina’s had plenty to say about it all, and none of complimentary to you, Mother, the Blades or Talos.”

            Rustem grounded the butt of his naginata to stop from dropping it. “She’s alive? Balgeir told us she was dead at Cloud Ruler!”

            “Her skill at Alteration magic kept her alive,” Bjarni said. “She’s angry and bitter, Redguard. Because you and Mother were out of the Empire’s reach, they took it out on her.”

            “I didn’t have a damn thing to do with my father’s rebellion,” Rustem said flatly. “I’d already made the decision to stay in Hammerfell. Where was Sigdrifa, huh?”

            “Saving the only living Battle-Tongue from the Thalmor and rescuing relics,” Bjarni admitted with a sigh. “Father says the family wing was on fire and they had no reason to believe she was alive. I believe him.”

            “The Aurelii were betrayed from within,” Beroc said gravely. “Someone alerted the Legionnaires stationed at Pale Pass.”

            Bjarni’s mouth tightened. “My grandfather may have decided not to march for Arius, but he wouldn’t have betrayed the man. More than that, I don’t know.”

            “Probably Rustem’s brother Irkand. He wasn’t just spared, he was declared Immunitas and permitted to retire to the Knights of the Circle of Arkay,” Beroc said placatingly. “I apologise for any aspersions cast upon your family, young Bjarni. Things are… tense enough… as it is.”

            The Dragonborn bowed his head. “Perhaps the main street of Whiterun isn’t the best place to discuss this. Would you care to come to Windhelm?”

            Rustem snorted. “Your mother would nail me to a wall, kid. We didn’t much like each other.”

            “Few people like the Stormsword,” Ralof drawled sardonically.

            “I’ll go,” Cirroc offered. “Kematu’s narrowed down Iman al-Suda’s location to here, but there’s still Lu’ah al-Skaven. Rumour has her as being somewhere called Anvilsund.”

            Bjarni’s expression was grim. “I know where that is. If you don’t mind a bit of a detour, we could intercept Callaina at Mzulft. I like not the Synod running around in my father’s Hold and maybe she’ll warm to you a little more than she has me.”

            Cirroc glanced at Beroc, who nodded. “Two birds, one stone. And they said Nords couldn’t do two things at once.”

            “You’d be surprised what we can do,” Bjarni said dryly.

            Rustem supposed that was true.

…

In all the teachings of the Stormcrown imparted upon the Shieldmaidens who served Him, none spoke of Talos having a sense of humour. But the buxom woman with olive-bronze skin, silky black hair and the voice of a dragon certainly suggested it. Or perhaps it was a message too subtle for Sigdrifa to perceive unless she prayed and fasted and consulted with the priesthood of Talos.

            Two days after Kynesgrove and no answers had come to the Stormsword. For once, she was uncertain and in that uncertainty her faith faltered. What was Sigdrifa without unshaken faith and unswaying certainty in her actions? Skyrim needed someone without doubts at the helm, someone who had never been broken like Ulfric or never simply followed like Galmar. Until Helgen, that someone had been her.

            Callaina had come and gone like the wind, travelling east into the foothills of the Velothi Mountains with the Hero-Twins. Stories came back from Keld-Nar of a conjurors’ coven put to sword and spell within the span of a day – then nothing. Mzulft was not too distant and there were reports of Imperial scouts in the area. Had she rejoined the Synod? A Dragonborn serving the Empire was the stuff of nightmares. But Ulfric told her the Greybeards spoke in plural, summoning at least two. He was the expert on the Thu’um. As much as it galled her, she had to accept his word.

            Bjarni returned late in the second day of the call, accompanied by Ralof and a few of the Whiterun newbloods, a Redguard clad in maroon and red robes by his side. “Cirroc ibn Rustem,” her son said easily. “He has business with Lu’ah al-Skaven at Anvilsund and Callaina at Mzulft.”

            “There is a… complication,” Ulfric finally said, grimacing. “Your sister… She is Dragonborn.”

            “Callaina?” Cirroc asked in a light tenor.

            “I only bore one daughter!” Sigdrifa snapped. His face was rounder and clean-shaven, black hair shorter than Rustem’s, but the resemblance was undeniable.

            “Thank the gods for that,” Ralof drawled. “One’s bad enough.”

            She gave the hearth-man a withering glance. Ralof’s loyalty appeared more to the boys than herself and Ulfric, which wasn’t a bad thing when they were children but was now a potential danger. Talos taught to trust no one beyond those you could control – and Ralof was beyond her control.

            “Still, it’s not all bad,” the blond continued. “Bjarni too is Dragonborn.”

            “Does Akatosh usually hedge His bets?” Cirroc asked calmly. “It sounds like something Tall Papa would do.”

            Sigdrifa ignored the heathen, staring at her son intently. “Is this true, Bjarni?”

            His response was to Shout the pewter plates off the left-hand table.

            “You could have said yes, you know,” she said sourly.

            “Seeing is believing.” Bjarni sighed. “I tried to warn Balgruuf of the dangers if the Imperials won, but he wasn’t minded to listen to me even though I saved his city from a dragon.”

            “Balgruuf only heeds the clink of gold in his hand,” Galmar growled. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a Shout that can turn wood to gold?”

            “Alteration doesn’t work like that,” Bjarni said dryly.

            “One could live in hope.”

            Ulfric leaned back in the Throne of Ysgramor. “The dragons take precedence. Go to Mzulft and collect your sister, then go to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards will instruct you further.”

            “I’m told these Greybeards are much like the Shehai Ansei, the Sword-Saints of old Yokuda-that-was,” Cirroc observed. “Except more shouty and less soul-swordy.”

            Ulfric’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I suppose so. You are a Sword-Saint, yes?”

            “I see my reputation precedes me,” Cirroc said with a faint smile. “Yes, I am first-rank Ansei, one of three who can manifest a soul sword. I am… here to test myself. Every sword must be quenched between the fire and the ice.”

            _Rustem had a monk for a son. I suppose it was the only way the boy could rebel against him,_ Sigdrifa thought with a trace of ruefulness. She knew her former husband was in Skyrim and so long as he stayed from Eastmarch, she wasn’t going to anger the Redguards by dealing with him. Hammerfell would be a crucial ally in the years to come when they freed Skyrim from the Empire.

            “Redguards and Nords understand each other. Perhaps a little too well at times,” Ulfric said wryly. “So long as you don’t raise your sword against us, Cirroc, you are welcome to remain in Eastmarch.”

            “I appreciate that,” Cirroc replied with a bow. “Sura-HoonDing willing, you will join Hammerfell as a free nation.”

            Ulfric smiled slightly. “I have no intention of it being otherwise.”

            When the Redguard withdrew to seek lodgings at Candlehearth Hall, Ulfric sighed. “It seems Alduin isn’t the only thing from the distant past to return to haunt us.”

            “Nothing stays buried forever,” Ralof observed.

            “True.” Ulfric sighed again.

            “How did Egil take the news?” Bjarni asked.

            “I don’t know,” Ulfric admitted. “He’s gone south with Gonnar Oath-Giver to deal with some bandits in the Jeralls.”

            Bjarni gave a weak grin. “It’ll be interesting.”

            Interesting wasn’t the word Sigdrifa would choose. But at the moment, it wasn’t her who had the words to control the situation.


	10. Mzulft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

The village of Keld-Nar was tucked between Cragwallow Slope and the foothills of the Velothi Mountains in a part of Eastmarch warmed by smouldering hot springs. Its buildings were Nordic in style, but a mixture of Dunmer and Nords dwelled there amicably and guards in the Hold’s dusty-blue tabards patrolled. The hetman was pleased to learn of the coven’s removal and paid for Callaina and the twins to stay at the Horny Horker for free. He confirmed that Mzulft was just to the northeast, tucked right up by the Velothi Mountains, and that several mages from the Synod had passed through three months ago. Interestingly enough, none had returned, not even for supplies.

            “That’s unusual,” Callaina observed as she sipped some of the snowberry ale brewed by Iddra back in Kynesgrove. It was popular enough in Keld-Nar that the innkeeper didn’t even bother to brew her own, instead preferring to make a sour wine from the jazbay grapes of the volcanic tundra. “Most of the mages who accompanied Paratus were town-bred and generally well-born. They couldn’t hunt but they could buy food.”

            “Can you conjure food?” Farkas asked curiously.

            She pursed her lips. The Hero-Twins had taken her revelation as Dragonborn in stride, treating her much the same. Vilkas told her every story of the Dovahkiinne the Companions knew, from the first three Tongues to Wulfharth Ash-King and the Nord tradition of Hjalti Early-Beard, as Talos had once been named. Several of them had joined the heirs of Jorrvaskr, two becoming Harbinger. One, Felldir the Old, had been a mage and priest of Jhunal, the old Nord version of Julianos.

            “There are some mages who can call non-complex items to them. Bags of grain and salted meat wouldn’t be beyond their capacity, but…” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s easier to force-grow some plants, replicate unprocessed foods or purify mushrooms, berries and water than to summon food from a distance.”

            “What would you do in their position?” Vilkas settled back in his seat.

            “Take a sack of salt, bags of grain and beans, and some cooking herbs,” she said immediately. “I do know the trick of replicating grain, salt and beans, but I must start from _something._ ”

            “You could feed everyone,” Farkas observed in awe.

            “It’s not easy. I’ve always been a good Alterationist and it still exhausts me. I’d rather pack a few weeks’ supply and supplement my rations by hunting and gathering,” she admitted. “For the magicka used to replicate a double-handful of dried beans, I can cast a couple firebolts or calm a hungry predator.”

            “Conservation of energy. You are a practical woman,” Vilkas said approvingly. “When Farkas and I learned to fight, Skjor made us do so when we were tired, so we would use the least amount of effort.”

            “So does the Legion.” Callaina lowered her flagon and sighed. “Things have become complicated, haven’t they?”

            “Maybe. Biggest problem will be keeping yourself outta the civil war,” Farkas said. “Legion will want ya to fight because you’re Imperial and Ulfric’s lot will expect it because you’re related to their royal family.”

            “My concern is delivering this crystal to Paratus and then taking myself to this High Hrothgar,” Callaina said firmly.

            _DOVAHKIINE!_ The Shout shattered the silence, rumbling across the sky like a stormfront, and something inside Callaina demanded she go south _now_. She remained silent as the moment passed. She might have a dragon’s soul, as Vilkas claimed, but she’d mastered her instincts long ago. They wouldn’t rule her.

            “That’s… interesting,” Vilkas muttered as everyone else in the inn began to chatter excitedly.

            “Why?”

            “Because the Greybeards spoke in the plural. There’s more than one Dragonborn.”

…

After a brief conversation with Farkas, Vilkas decided it was best to accompany Callaina to Mzulft. Maybe the dwarven ruin had been tamed by the Synodic mages – or more likely, the copper automatons had done Skyrim the favour of getting rid of them. The warrior knew when someone was clinging to a goal as a means to cope with drastic changes in their life. Callaina showed all the signs.

            They left Keld-Nar in the grey light of predawn, Callaina clad in her travel-stained, much-darned mage robes of a foreign cut. Vilkas took one look at the complicated buttoning and folds, wondering how she managed to put it on in less than fifteen minutes. The Skyrim style was much more practical, being a yoke or tabard over a tunic and breeches. “What kind of robes are those?” he asked curiously.

            “Nibenese,” she said over her shoulder. “The Colovian style is much more austere.”

            “Have you seen the robes our mages wear?” Farkas rumbled. “Nice an’ simple.”

            “No doubt. But I’m not a mage of Skyrim. I’m a mage of the Synod.”

            Vilkas opened his mouth but Farkas gave him a quelling glance. For all his lack of book smarts, the big man was better at reading people – in particular women! – than Vilkas.

            They skirted the edge of an Imperial encampment near Stony Creek Cave and pressed forward towards Mzulft. Callaina’s right hand glowed and a blue-white line speared ahead, passing through a pair of great copper doors inscribed with geometric lines. “Someone’s alive,” she said with some relief. “If none had been, the Clairvoyance spell wouldn’t have worked.”

            Inside, there were broken automatons in the first few chambers but eventually the rotting bodies of mages wearing robes of a similar style, if different colours, to Callaina appeared. “Name of Kynareth,” she swore. “This was a ten-strong team!”

            “I’m guessing they underestimated the automatons,” Vilkas rumbled.

            “I knew Gavros was the most sensible of the lot, but I would have thought…” Callaina shook her head in distress. “Let me collect their medallions. I’ll send them back with a report to First Adjunct Oronrel. He approved this mission.”

            Pressing deeper into the ruins, they encountered working automatons. Farkas and Vilkas had delved into several ruins in the past – and Callaina used ice magic to weaken the mechanical monsters’ metal hides. Just how incompetent had these mages been when a Journeyman of their order and two Companions were able to defeat the automatons with some effort but no real difficulty?

            Things became grim when they reached the levels that the Falmer dwelled in. “What are _those_?” she hissed, blanching almost white.

            “Falmer,” Vilkas murmured in her ear. “It’s said that when they fled Ysgramor, the Dwemer made them slaves and… changed them.”

            “Pity them if you must, but don’t spare them your blade,” Farkas advised as quietly. “They show no mercy.”

            Callaina was silent for a while before she spoke. “I almost understand why the Thalmor want to destroy humanity at moments like this.”

            “But it was mer who twisted their fellow mer,” Vilkas reminded her. “And the slaughter at Saarthal…”

            “I said _almost_.” She cast Clairvoyance once more. “Whoever’s left, they’re further in the ruins. Can we sneak past these things?”

            Farkas shook his head. “No. We must go through them.”

            And so they did. Callaina’s physical stamina was much less than his or Farkas but her magicka made up for it. She focused on the Falmer shamans and archers, diminishing their magicka with lightning that shone blue-green in the light of chaurus eggs, as Farkas and Vilkas slaughtered the melee fighters. How had one or two Synod mages survived this?

            Once the battle was over, Callaina drank something in a red vial and her robes were cut and splattered with blood. Farkas sniffed the air. “Their arrows were poisoned,” he growled.

            “Yes, I noticed,” she said, leaning against a stone wall. “My stamina’s drained. The poison was… icy.”

            “Probably frostbite spider venom. They keep the damn things as pets,” Vilkas said harshly. “Are you sure it’s wise to keep on pushing forward?”

            “I made vows,” she said simply. “You’re welcome to leave if you’d like.”

            Vilkas snorted. “Of course not. You’re one of the Dragonborn. We need to keep you alive.”

            “And here I thought you were taken by my incredible beauty and charming personality,” she said dryly.

            Vilkas snorted again. Oh, she was beautiful enough, he supposed. But she wasn’t his type.

            “I am,” Farkas said cheerfully. “But you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree with Vilkas.”

            “Ah.” There was no condemnation in her blue-green eyes. “I think we can finish this. Let’s go.”

            Some more Falmer and a Dwarven Centurion lay between them and the chambers where the remaining Synodic mages had taken refuge. Though capable of powerful attacks, the Centurion was slow – slower when it had ice spikes cast into its joints and gears. “I’ve… got… to… learn… more… powerful… Destruction… spells,” Callaina panted as she cast and the twins struck.

            It finally died but not before Farkas and Vilkas both suffered steam burns. Callaina gave them the last of the healing potions, which eased the hot tight feeling, and they entered the final chamber. It had two doors and one of them was locked. Farkas touched it and energy crackled around his hand.

            “Mage-locked,” Callaina said, downing a magicka potion. “Thankfully, I know the counterspell.”

            She walked up and placed her hands on the door. Blue-green light surged from them, shattering the spell with a sound like glass.

            Someone pulled open the door. It was a dirty, unshaven Cyrod in robes of finer fabric and cut than Callaina’s, who managed to hold a disdainful expression while smelling like shit.

            “What the hell are _you_ doing here?” he demanded angrily.

…

It just didn’t pay to rescue some people, Farkas mused as Callaina flushed red under her olive-bronze skin.

            “Gavros gave me the focusing crystal to deliver because, as you know, I worked with him on crystalline refraction of magicka,” she said flatly. “I have the paperwork to prove it.”

            “You were never meant to leave Bruma,” the Synod mage said icily.

            “Well, be glad she did, because you wouldn’t have your damn crystal,” Vilkas drawled.

            “If I wanted the opinion of a common sellsword, I’d have asked for it,” the mage answered dismissively.

            “Seeing as the Hero-Twins of Jorrvaskr aren’t common sellswords, you’d better get used to their opinion,” Callaina said. “Now, do you want this crystal or not?”

            “You might as well come in,” he invited ungraciously. “Don’t think this will get you promoted though.”

            “That’s up to the Council. I know the First Adjunct’s going to be asking some hard questions about your leadership abilities.” Callaina followed him up to a Dwemer control board. “So what’s the reason for getting your team killed?”

            “We had to protect ourselves from those twisted little goblins and automata,” the mage said.

            “No, you cast Invisibility and ran for the hills while the automata were butchering our colleagues,” Callaina said bitterly.

            “The Oculory was more important than their lives!”

            “That’s not a call for you to make.” Callaina reached into her satchel and pulled out a worn scrap of silk-velvet. She unwrapped it to reveal a translucent crystal in the shape of a cone. “Good, it’s still intact. I knew I’d calculated the temperatures properly.”

            “You made it?” the mage blurted.

            “With a little oversight from Gavros. I’m not stuck at Journeyman because of my lack of competence, Paratus.” She set the crystal into the appropriate socket. “So, I’m guessing we need to array the lens to collect light for… what, exactly?”

            “That’s above your paygrade,” Paratus sneered.

            “I’m going to find out sooner rather than later. This isn’t Cyrodiil, where your brother could make me suffer the bureaucratic equivalent of the Death of a Thousand Cuts.” She took several deep breaths, the ozone scent of magicka blooming around her once more, and then cast jolts of ice and fire on the mirrors until each one was pointing at one of three concentric rings of glass.

            “This looks familiar,” she noted. “Do you think the Dwemer paid any attention to the Ayleid star magics?”

            She reached out and pressed various buttons until the light from the focusing crystal was split into beams that bounced off the mirrors and onto the far wall. A blue-white map of Skyrim appeared with glowing dots scattered around the province. The biggest one was in Winterhold, but the second biggest was on the border of Whiterun and Morthal.

            “Labyrinthian,” Vilkas rumbled. “The maze of Archmage Shalidor.”

            “I suppose you’re not entirely incompetent after all,” Paratus conceded. “The Oculory’s managed to reveal everything we needed to know.”

            “Which was?” Callaina asked.

            He smiled thinly. “The location of every source of magic in this wretched province. It’s high time we reclaimed it from these ignorant barbarians to assist the Empire.”

            Farkas exchanged glances with Vilkas. That didn’t sound good.

            “I didn’t realise the Synod was expanding,” Callaina said quietly.

            “We have to. The College of Whispers and those idiots at Winterhold can’t be trusted with the arcane secrets.” Paratus nodded at Callaina. “I’ll put in a suggestion that you be assigned to a slightly better post than Bruma. We can’t let you rise to Evoker, but we can make use of you at Arcane University.”

            Callaina’s mouth tightened. “I have more pressing business. Dragons have returned and I’m one of the few who can bring them down permanently.”

            “Dragons? Are creatures from mythology running rampant now?” Paratus asked amusedly.

            “Dragons are real. We helped her kill one,” Farkas rumbled. How Callaina could take these insults without striking back puzzled him. A true Nord stood up for themselves.

            “Paratus, do you realise how deep into hostile territory you are?” Callaina asked softly. “You should swallow your damn pride and take shelter at the College of Winterhold until the civil war is ended.”

            “What civil war?” Paratus asked.

            “The one where the true children of Skyrim have decided to overthrow the shackles imposed by the elf-enslaved, god-denying Empire,” said a rich bass that rumbled with the edge of distant thunder.

            Bjarni Ulfricsson climbed the ramp, accompanied by Ralof Storm-Hammer and a lithe Redguard youth with a striking resemblance to Callaina. “You move like the wind, sister. Has Kynareth taught you Whirlwind Sprint?”

            “Whirlwind what?” Callaina asked, shocked.

            “Whirlwind Sprint. It allows a Tongue to move as fast as the wind. My father never knew it, but he saw the Greybeards use it sometimes.” Bjarni glanced at the starlit map of Skyrim. “Winterhold, Labyrinthian, Solitude… There are many places of magic in Skyrim, I see.”

            “Just who the hell are you?” Paratus demanded. “This is official Synodic business! To interfere with us is treason!”

            Bjarni’s mouth quirked in an edged smile. “Did you miss the part about the civil war? The Synod and its precious Empire has no authority here.”

            “That is treason!”

            “You Cyrods call it that, yes. We call it fighting for our freedom.”

            Ralof sighed and lifted his hammer. “Bjarni, we can’t let the Cyrod leave. He’s openly admitted that his people came to Mzulft to take the magic of Skyrim for the Empire.”

            Bjarni’s mouth tightened. “Agreed. Callaina, I’m sorry if this man is a friend of yours, but…”

            “By the oath of the Synod, you must assist me!” Paratus told Callaina. “I’ll talk to my brother, get you made an Evoker-“

            “I-“ Callaina’s eyes rolled up in her head as the Redguard, who’d snuck around while everyone was distracted, tapped her under the ear with the pommel of his dagger.

            “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he told Farkas, whose hand had gone to his sword-hilt. “But it’s better Callaina’s not mixed up with this. Take her outside – it’s in the next room. We’ll talk to you soon.”

            Vilkas nodded tightly. “Fine.”

            Farkas picked up Callaina and they left the Oculory. Politely, the Stormcloaks waited until they were outside before doing what they felt was necessary.

            Several minutes later, the trio emerged from Mzulft laden with loot, Ralof wiping off his warhammer. “There’s an end to that,” he said.

            “It was a wise choice. My mother banned all Synod mages from Elinhir because they were divulging secrets of Yokudan sorcery to the Elder Council,” the Redguard agreed.

            “I thought Redguards hated sorcery?” Bjarni asked.

            “We appreciate Destruction and Restoration. A few of our priests of Tu’whacca practice arts that some might consider necromancy, but only to defend our honoured dead. It’s soul binding that’s considered forbidden.”

            “Callaina won’t thank you for takin’ her choices,” Farkas told them.

            “Maybe not,” Bjarni agreed. “But Akatosh did that when He made her and I Dragonborn.”

            “You’re the other Dragonborn?” Vilkas asked, eyebrow rising.

            “I am.” Bjarni smiled wryly. “Don’t worry, my mother’s trying to get used to it herself.”

            “I bet she’s dealing better with you being Dragonborn than the daughter she, ah, left behind being one,” the Redguard observed dryly. “Does it run in the family?”

            “Well, the Kreathling Jarls claim descent from Felldir the Old,” Bjarni answered. “But… I think it depends on the need and the will of the gods.”

            “So now what?” Farkas asked them.

            “I go to Anvilsund and Callaina goes with Bjarni to High Hrothgar,” the Redguard said quietly. “But I’ll stay around until she wakes up. I owe her an apology.”

            “And you are?” Vilkas asked.

            “Cirroc ibn Rustem. Sword-Saint of Hammerfell… and brother to the Dragonborn on her father’s side.” He smiled wryly. “Please don’t let her zap me with lightning when she wakes up.”


	11. Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Callaina woke up to the scent of woodsmoke and charred meat, a pounding headache and the sound of men’s gruff voices. A pair of kind quicksilver-grey eyes peered down at her, surrounded by a mask of smudged black war paint, and it took her a moment to realise it was Farkas. “How’s the head?” he rumbled gently.

            “Hurts,” she mumbled. She was shivering from overuse of magicka potions. “Cold. Too much magicka potion.”

            He helped her to sit up, wrapping a blessedly hot arm around her shoulders. “Healin’ potion help?”

            “For head.” Her thoughts were slow and clogged, half-frozen mud like the dirt she sat in. She remembered Mzulft, finding Paratus and-

            Farkas pressed a red vial to her lips and she obediently drank. Sweet and faintly grainy, it dulled the pain to a bearable level once it had settled in her stomach like a cold lump.

            “Wheat an’ blue mountain flower,” he explained.

            So that’s what the cheap healing potions she’d made in Riverwood tasted like. Callaina grimaced; she’d never liked cold gruel and that was essentially what this potion was.

            “Thanks,” she croaked. Her mouth was drier than the Alik’r Desert.

            The big Companion handed her a waterskin. The water tasted of minerals and the same faint sweetness as the healing potion. “Been hit on the head a few times. Can’t help with the magic stuff, though.”

            Callaina closed her eyes against the brightness of the sky. “Rest and warmth do the trick.”

            “Could go back to Keld-Nar for the night. Bjarni ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He glanced away and Callaina followed his gaze to the cluster of men cooking (poorly) venison over the fire. Half of it was burned and the other half was still kicking, it was so rare.

            “She awake?” Ralof asked, looking up from the deer.

            “Yeah, got a sore head an’ sick from too many magicka potions,” Farkas reported. “She says rest and warmth is the best thing.”

            “None of us are equipped to go camping,” remarked the quiet Redguard who’d accompanied Bjarni and Ralof. He was more sepia than bronze and his eyes were darker, but he bore a striking resemblance to her uncle Irkand. “Is she coherent?”

            “I’m right here,” Callaina said flatly. “You could ask me yourself.”

            “I just don’t want you to throw lightning my way,” he replied serenely. “I did what I had to. The Cyrod had to die and I made sure you didn’t have to worry about it.”

            “You murdered a man in cold blood. Yes, he was an arse who got several good mages killed because he received the job based on connections and not competency, but it was still murder,” she told him.

            “Actually, _I_ murdered him,” Ralof corrected. “That Cyrod had deliberately come to Skyrim in order to locate and deprive us of our own resources. That’s espionage, even if he wrapped it up in fine words about protecting arcane secrets and whatever.”

            Vilkas scowled. “I understand the reasoning. I just don’t agree with it.”

            “You’re a Companion of Jorrvaskr. You have the luxury of staying out of politics,” Bjarni said quietly.

            Callaina drank some more water. Now that she’d reached Mzulft and achieved her goal, she’d have to climb to the top of the Throat of the World, a mountain that loomed over half of Skyrim. “Well, enjoy your politics. I have to worry about the dragons.”

            “So do I. The Greybeards spoke in plural. You and I are the Dovahkiinne.”

            “No.”

            “He is,” Vilkas confirmed wearily. “He proved it to us.”

            “We’ll have to go to High Hrothgar together,” Bjarni told her. “I mean, you’re welcome to come to Windhelm and learn from my father, but I don’t think you or Mother are ready for that.”

            Callaina glanced at Farkas and Vilkas. “What’s your going rate for escort work?” she asked.

            “You don’t trust me?” Bjarni asked, sounding hurt.

            “No. I think she wants a neutral party around,” said the Redguard.

            Callaina took a deep breath, reminded her that she was essentially deep within territory that would see her as ‘the other’ because of her ancestry and growing up in Cyrodiil, and released it slowly. “So the Stormcloaks know?”

            “You killed a dragon at Kynesgrove. It was only by Ulfric’s intervention that you weren’t delivered to Windhelm while you were sleeping it off,” Ralof said. “I don’t know why you and Bjarni are both Dragonborn, but it is the will of the gods. Ulfric’s many things, but he was a Greybeard once, and he understands the Thu’um.”

            “I still think the Nord gods are having a laugh,” the Redguard said.

            Vilkas rubbed his stubbled chin, glancing at Farkas. “We’ll send a message to Kodlak from Keld-Nar and accompany you to Ivarstead, Callaina. You’ve proven yourself to be honourable and courageous, worthy of the mantle of Dragonborn.”

            Farkas nodded earnestly. “You should come to Jorrvaskr and learn somethin’ of the sword. What’cha gonna do when you run out of magicka and a dragon’s coming your way?”

            “You’re shitting me,” the Redguard said in disbelief. “Warriors have killed and died for the chance to train with the heirs of Ysgramor and you’re inviting a-a-“

            “A woman who has fought alongside us more than once,” Vilkas informed him coolly. “I’ve heard of you, Cirroc Ansei. Your mother invited Skjor and Aela to kill the Demon-Bear of Elinhir two years ago. Are you a Sword-Saint yet or simply a sword-singer?”

            “I’m a Sword-Saint of the First Rank,” Cirroc said tightly. “I’m happy to show you my competency here and now.”

            Vilkas smiled thinly and rose to his feet with wolfish grace. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve never had the pleasure of sparring with a Sword-Saint before; the last to visit Jorrvaskr was in the time of Tiber Septim.”

            “I’ll judge,” Ralof offered.

            “Fine by me,” Cirroc said as he stood. “I don’t doubt Vilkas’ competency, but I’m one of the finest duellists in Hammerfell.”

            “Oh for the love of the gods,” Callaina said exasperatedly. “What is it about men and their swords?”

            Farkas patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Your other brother’s about to get a lesson in humility.”

            _My other-_ Callaina exhaled slowly and studied Cirroc. She hadn’t put two and two together, even after Delphine told her. He looked more like Irkand than Rustem, honestly. “Is this necessary?”

            “Yes.” Vilkas began to perform a series of stretches. “Cirroc has questioned the judgement of the Companions. No doubt he is a skilled swordsman, but I’d bet he hasn’t seen real combat.”

            “I’ve fought in over twenty duels,” Cirroc shot back.

            Callaina sighed. Even in the Anvil Third, she’d seen frontline combat. Duels were all very well, but battles were another.

            “Did you sneak around the circle and attack from behind?” Vilkas asked coolly.

            So it had been Cirroc who knocked her out. Wonderful.

            “That was necessity. If Callaina should be so foolish as to return to Cyrodiil when this is over, she can legitimately say she was unable to assist that Paratus,” Cirroc countered. He’d already stepped into the rough circle Ralof had stamped in the half-frozen dirt.

            She remembered her father having that same self-serving arrogance. Yes, Cirroc was Rustem’s son.

            Vilkas finished his exercises, walked over to a pile of loot stacked near the fire, and withdrew one of the ugly chitinous shields of the Falmer and a fine steel sword. “I’ll make this easy for you.”

            Cirroc was as red as the cloth of his robes by the time Vilkas joined him in the battle-circle.

            Callaina held her breath. This couldn’t end well.

…

Ralof waited for Cirroc to draw his curved sword and for both men to nod at each other before dropping his arm to signal the beginning of the bout.

            Cirroc surged forward like a wave to the shore, his weapon weaving a pattern that caught the eye and dazzled it with the meagre light of the afternoon sun. Bjarni blinked away the red-violet afterglow but Vilkas simply lifted his shield to block the overhead diagonal slash that followed. Steel skidded against chitin and the Redguard youth fell back, bracing against the recoil.

            The lean Companion stepped back, drawing Cirroc forward in a picture-perfect lunge, and tapped him in the side with the flat of the steel sword. “Dead once,” Vilkas growled. “Would you care to continue?”

            Cirroc said something in Yokudan that made Ralof laugh. Bjarni really needed to learn some Redguard obscenities. Dunmer ones were getting old.

            Then he initiated a series of movements that flickered like fire, sword leaving shining circles of light as it went from a feint to a half-lunge to a blow that was meant to catch Vilkas in the right-hand side under the armpit, all almost faster than Bjarni’s eye could follow. The Companion lazily blocked the blow and then trapped Cirroc’s sword in between his black-enamelled cuirass and the Falmer shield. The steel sword in his hand tapped Cirroc in the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Dead twice.”

            It took three more repetitions, Vilkas countering all of the graceful motions of Redguard swordplay with nothing but a Falmer shield, before Cirroc admitted defeat. Maybe being set on his arse by a shield-bash did it.

            “You have perfect form and pure skill,” Vilkas said as he returned the sword and shield to the pile of loot they’d taken from Mzulft. “Outside of the sword-singers’ monastery, that’s going to get you killed.”

            “What do you mean by that?” Cirroc said sourly as he sheathed his sword.

            “A wise warrior is open to learning new techniques,” Ralof rumbled. “I prefer the warhammer, but I can fight with a hand-axe or bow if necessary. Overreliance on one weapon generally leads to trouble if you’re disarmed.”

            “But I’m a Sword-Saint. I’m _never_ disarmed.” Cirroc held out his hand and pale light collected between his fingers, gathering into the crude shape of a sword. “See?”

            Callaina simply raised her eyebrows. “Now that we’re done comparing the size of your swords, can we return to Keld-Nar?”

            “It’s skill, not size, that matters,” Cirroc said. “I know you’ve been raised in ignorance of your heritage, but…”

            She shook her head. “Never mind.”

            Bjarni cleared his throat. “Divide the loot into sixths. We’ve all earned a share.”

            The walk back to Keld-Nar was long and by the end of it, Callaina was leaning heavily on Farkas’ arm. His big sister needed to work on her stamina. The Companions could help with that.

            “I do have some basic Legion training,” she was telling Vilkas. “I’ve let it get rusty. The Synod tends to look down at spellswords.”

            “From the looks of it, the Synod looks down on nearly everyone,” Farkas said. “You’re Redguard and Nord. Sword-fightin’ is in your blood.”

            “Did you mean what you said? I don’t think I’m going to be welcome back in Bruma any time soon, let alone the Synod.”

            “You’d have to impress Kodlak but we meant it,” Farkas assured her. “Be nice to have a new face around Jorrvaskr. It gets lonely sometimes.”

            Ralof caught Bjarni’s eye and winked. The blond was popular with the women (and men so inclined) and knew when someone was trying to flirt. Cirroc, on the other hand, looked mystified. Bjarni suspected that he really didn’t know much about life outside of swords.

            Vilkas smiled a little. “Being Dragonborn will help. And the Companions are politically neutral.”

            Callaina smiled in relief. “Thank you.”


	12. Anvilsund

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and corpse desecration. Cirroc deserves a badass moment after last chapter.

 

“-An’ then I pulled the Thane from the bog an’ said, ‘It’s mud that’s good for the skin, not peat!’”

            “Peat’s great for making leather,” Bjarni said after Farkas delivered the punchline of the story he’d told as they left Keld-Nar at dawn. “Maybe he wanted a well-tanned hide.”

            “I don’t get it,” Cirroc said.

            “Peat comes from the bogs and the tannin in the water is good for preserving leather,” Bjarni explained. “Certain kinds of bark help too.”

            “Failing that, brain’s good too.” Farkas grinned. “Every animal has just enough brains to preserve its hide.”

            “Oh dear,” Callaina said wryly. “In Cyrodiil we use ash and urine.”

            “So do we,” Bjarni admitted cheerfully. “But the best leather is definitely bog or brain-tanned.”

            “How does the eldest son of a Jarl know how to tan leather?” Cirroc asked.

            “Because the eldest son of the Jarl has the basic skills that any Nord who hunts is expected to have,” Bjarni told him. “If we hunt, we must use as much of each animal kill we make, or it offends Kynareth. Ralof made sure we could at least rough-tan pelts and make basic armour if necessary.”

            Cirroc shook his head in disbelief. He was still smarting from his defeat at Vilkas’ hands, Callaina noticed. Her younger brother was very sheltered and unworldly in his way. “Doesn’t that seem a bit below… well…”

            “What, my rank?” Bjarni asked dryly. “Just because I’m Ulfric’s son doesn’t mean I’ll inherit Windhelm. Now, barring the Legion somehow defeating us, I’m likely to be a Thane at the very least… But in the Old Holds, we’re not so wealthy that we can have idle hands the year around. The harvest and slaughter-season in particular require all hands on deck.”

            “I think you’ll find many of the Alik’r tribes of Hammerfell to have a similar attitude to the Old Holds,” Callaina said quietly. “In places where survival is difficult, the idle are a burden not long tolerated.”

            “Even the Companions rough-tan our pelts for Eorlund, and Farkas actually does most of the basic arms and armour repair,” Vilkas added. “The only two who don’t do any kind of ‘menial labour’ are Vignar, who’s eighty, and Kodlak, who’s sick.”

            “Sounds ridiculous to me. You’re warriors and nobles, not tanners.” Cirroc shook his head again.

            Callaina decided to remain silent. She’d been too hasty with her words lately and now half of Skyrim probably knew her life story. Return to Cyrodiil wasn’t an option now, if ever, and her only hope for sanctuary relied on a semi-mercenary order of warriors. Farkas and Vilkas seemed happy to have her join but what would the Harbinger say? Her sword-skills were rusty and mages generally had trouble combining sword-play and spell-casting. That’s assuming magic was permissible for a Companion.

            They found the tomb of Anvilsund by noon, sticking to the foothills of the Velothi Mountains, and Ralof’s thrown hand-axe made short work of the necromancer keeping guard. Callaina knelt by the man’s body and pulled back his robes to reveal intricate Daedric runes. “College of Whispers,” she said grimly. “She’s got allies.”

            “Lu’ah al-Skaven was a priestess of Tu’whacca and adept at the Mages’ Academy in Elinhir,” Cirroc said. “When her husband died at the Battle of the Red Ring, she proposed raising the ancestors as troops to wipe out the Dominion forces. Even Father was appalled and he’s… well, from what Mother’s implied, he’s worked as an assassin. She was exiled and went to the College of Whispers.”

            “Wait, did you say ‘raising ancestors to wipe out the Dominion’?” Ralof asked.

            “Yes. Why?”

            Ralof nodded to the door that led into the tomb. “She approached us five or so years ago. Sigdrifa and Wuunferth were for it, Galmar and Father against. Egil threatened to join the Vigilants forever and aye if they went through with it, so she was sent away.”

            “Great. So we have a widowed necromancer plundering the tomb of Fjori and Holgeir,” Bjarni said flatly. “What’s the bet she’s taken with the ‘romance’ of the place?”

            “Sweet Mother Kynareth,” Callaina breathed. “She’s going to use their draugr to turn herself into a lich and summon her husband in a like form.”

            “Is that possible?” Vilkas asked, ashen-faced.

            “Yes. I saw it happen in Underpall Cavern once…” Callaina shuddered at the memory.

            “All the more reason to kill her,” Vilkas grated. “Let’s get it done.”

            For the fourth day in a row, Callaina found herself providing magical backup for a group of warriors. These draugr were more fragile than the ones at Bleak Falls Barrow and the necromancers they found slow from sloth and complacency. Lu’ah called out to them, raising the dead as they burrowed deeper into the tomb, until Cirroc shouted something in Yokudan that silenced her.

            “What’d you say?” Bjarni asked.

            “I told her that her husband was in the Far Shores, safe from the hunger of Satakal, but she would feed the hunger of the devourer of worlds with her soul,” was Cirroc’s reply. “Even a Redguard renegade would blanch at such a fate.”

            They reached the sanctum, where a handsome middle-aged Redguard woman waited with two draugr beside her. “Let me do this, Ansei,” she said desperately. “Imagine the knowledge of a powerful necromancer and a Legate by your side! If you can make use of the Soul Sword-“

            “Prince A’Tor chose his fate freely, to be the crown in the sword of Sura-HoonDing,” Cirroc interrupted. “What you speak is abomination against the gods of Yokuda-that-was and Atmora-that-was. Will you make your peace with Tu’whacca in honest repentance and see the Far Shores? Or will you persist in your deluded path until even Satakal recoils in horror from you?”

            “The Nords don’t have any gods,” Lu’ah said scornfully.

            “Oh, but we do,” Bjarni said with a grim smile. “One of them gave me the power to Shout you arse over tit. FUS!”

            The Unrelenting Force struck Lu’ah and sent her staggering back. Callaina took advantage of her broken concentration to cast Turn Undead at the two draugr.

            The golden light enveloped them and the icy glowing eyes stared in her direction. _Oh crap, they’re powerful,_ she thought as she opened her mouth to – Shout, pray, beg, she didn’t know.

            “KAAN GAAR DIIL!”

            The… Shout… hit the draugr. Out of the crumbling draugr stepped two blue-white wraiths, one a woman in fine armour and the other a man in heavy furs. Lu’ah was just coming to her senses as they drew their ethereal swords and advanced on her.

            “Hold!” Callaina managed to rasp. “That one is Yokudan and belongs to the Sword-Saint Cirroc.”

            “As you say, Voice of Kyne,” spoke the male ghost, who was Holgeir.

            Cirroc strode up the stairs as Lu’ah attempted to call lightning. But the Sword-Saint’s spirit sword, that crude bar of white-gold light, deflected the bolts. Then it neatly parted head from body, leaving seared meat in its wake.

            “Well struck,” Fjori approved.

            “Shouldn’t you be in Sovngarde?” Cirroc asked with some confusion.

            “Only those who die in battle go to Sovngarde,” Bjarni told him with a slightly shaky voice. “Fjori and Holgeir died of snake bites, of all damn things.”

            “We are free now. Our love was so great it bound us to our corpses,” Holgeir said. “Thank you for saving us. I feared what she would do to us.”

            “Use your draugr to make herself and her dead husband liches,” Callaina explained. “How can we, ah, move you on?”

            “You can say ‘rebirth’, Voice of Kyne,” Fjori said dryly. “You have already shown us the path. I feel the breath of Kyne inhaling us to be reborn again. But take what you want from our tomb. We have no need of it anymore.”

            “My sword may be of some use,” Holgeir said, unbuckling the ethereal weapon. “The Ghostblade, they called it. Much like your friend’s Soul Sword, it was forged from a soul – my grandmother, a Shieldmaiden of Shor who had no desire to be entombed in Yngvild. It will ignore armour and cut almost any flesh.”

            Callaina took the cold, clammy weapon from Holgeir’s hands. The ghostly pair smiled and faded into nothingness.

            “Voice-of-Kyne, eh?” Vilkas said. “Hell of an honour-name, Callaina.”

            “Where the hell did that Shout come from?” Bjarni asked.

            She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just… did.”

            “Kyne Release Undead. Damned useful one if I can learn it. The Greybeards will send us to Ustengrav, where all their kind are buried.” Bjarni glanced over at Cirroc as he put Lu’ah’s head in a bag. “So now what, Sword-Saint?”

            “I deliver her head to Grandfather as proof. The reward will assist my mother considerably.” Cirroc tied the bag to his belt. “Sword-Saints own nothing but their arms, armour and just enough coin to pay for food and shelter if need be. Anything else would distract us.”

            “You’re welcome to come to Windhelm whenever you want,” Bjarni assured him.

            “I might. I won’t win the war for you but I’m sure there’s a few Legates who could improve the world by leaving it,” Cirroc said with a grin. “They have to be a challenge though.”

            “Trust me, Tullius’ officers are some of the best,” Ralof told him.

            “Good. It’s not much fun if they can’t fight properly.”

            “Most of Tullius’ officers are as battle-hardened as Vilkas,” Callaina said. “You should pick your fights more wisely.”

            “What, like you and your allegiance?” Cirroc asked. “You’ve been given power that gods would envy… but you’re going to sit on your ass and hope you don’t have to pick a side. Those who choose security over freedom deserve neither.”

            Callaina’s mouth tightened. She didn’t want a fight with Cirroc.

            “The Voice is sacred,” Bjarni said, regarding Cirroc with raised eyebrows. “It was given to us by Kyne… who our sister is obviously favoured by. I intend to use my Voice in war because it’s in my bloodline. But I don’t look down at Callaina for choosing to join the Companions.”

            “Speak only in true need,” Farkas rumbled. “That’s what the Greybeards say.”

            “Uh huh. Well, a weapon is meant to be used and the Thu’um’s as much a weapon as the spirit sword.” Cirroc nodded to them. “May you die with a sword in your hands.”


	13. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Merry Xmas chapter for my loyal readers!

 

With Cirroc gone, some of the tension eased. Bjarni liked the Redguard, he really did, but the arrogant ignorance he displayed was enough to piss off a priest of Mara. Now it was just him and his sister… and Farkas, Vilkas and Ralof, of course. Callaina was getting on fine with the Hero-Twins and Farkas seemed genuinely attracted to her. Ralof too, but the hearth-man was keeping it platonic between them because Callaina didn’t seem interested.

            “Callaina Voice-of-Kyne,” the blond said softly as they walked up towards the hills that divided Eastmarch from the Rift. “So named by Fjori and Holgeir themselves. Do you really think the Mother of Men favours her?”

            “My sister has little training in Dovahzul and less in the Thu’um,” Bjarni pointed out. “Theoretically, she shouldn’t have been able to create that Shout unless Kyne gave her the Words for it.”

            Ralof nodded. “Does it bother you?”

            “Not really. Kyne gave us the Voice. Most Dragonborn are traditionally tied to Shor, but it makes sense Kyne would have Hers too.” Bjarni looked up at the hills ahead. “I am the Voice of War, the Tongue of Shor and maybe Talos. Callaina belongs to the Storm-Goddess. I won’t say that I understand why there’s two Dragonborn, but I suspect it’s because we balance each other.”

            “Maybe.”

            They reached Ivarstead a day later. The local tomb was reportedly haunted and after a few choice words on the matter from Callaina, she went to investigate the place. When she returned three hours later with the head of a wizened Dunmer and several vials of vaguely glowing liquid, her expression was disgusted. “This idiot dosed himself up on an unknown potion and convinced everyone he was a spirit,” she said flatly.

            “By the Nine,” the innkeep Wilhelm said with a flush. “I feel like a right idiot. Look, I have the claw to the puzzle door. Who knows what treasures these tombs hold?”

            Callaina handed the sapphire-tipped claw to the Hero-Twins. “Help yourselves. I’m keeping you away from paying work. Maybe this will make up for it.”

            “Old tombs like this have Word Walls a lot,” Farkas rumbled. “You and Bjarni better come with us.”

            There were, of course, draugr. What Callaina didn’t drive away with her Restoration spells, she crumbled using the Shout Bjarni decided to call Kyne’s Release. Even the king-draugr in the inner sanctum didn’t last long against all five of them. Callaina was getting better with the Ghostblade, her old Legion training reasserting itself, and Bjarni wondered how his mother had ever thought her weak and sickly. There were still traces of the sedentary mage, but under that slight plumpness was a strength taut and fine as ebony wire.

            They left the tomb around sunset with a new Word for a Shout involving Kyne and animals. When a wolf came running down the street, Callaina Shouted “KAAN!” and the creature became as docile as a lamb. The guards killed it. To Bjarni, that was cheating.

            His sister looked up at the Throat of the World. “High Hrothgar’s up there?”

            “At the highest plateau. There’s a peak where Paarthurnax, the Master of the Greybeards and the second dragon to aid humanity at Kyne’s urging, lives. We probably won’t meet him for a bit because the Greybeards won’t think we’re worthy.”

            Callaina’s mouth tightened. “The Blades wanted him dead.”

            “Thankfully, the Blades are dead. Paarthurnax has more than made up for whatever he did while serving Alduin.”

            “One’s alive. Delphine Revanche. She broke cover to contact me.” Callaina wrinkled her nose. “She was my father’s mistress.”

            “Woman, don’t take this the wrong way, but your family sounds insane. It’s an open secret that my father and Galmar are together, but Mother knows and I think she’s a bit relieved. She’s not really spouse material.”

            “Yet she was furious when Father was sleeping with Delphine. But you’re right, Bjarni. My family _is_ insane. I mean, we’re descended from the Hero of Kvatch, who became the Madgoddess…” Callaina shook her head. “We’ve got whatever Father is, the guy who assassinates things for Arkay, the Sword-Saint who could use a boot up the arse and the neurotic Synodic Journeyman. So yes, we are insane.”

            “Well, my side has Mother and my brother Egil,” Bjarni admitted. “Egil is… very rigid. He’s more compassionate than Mother, but he’s very much a servant of Stendarr.”

            “He’s an arse,” Vilkas said bluntly.

            “Takes one to know one,” Bjarni pointed out.

            They stayed for another night in the inn before climbing the Seven Thousand Steps. Callaina made copious use of the Kyne’s Peace Shout and the animals left them alone. Even the pissed-off frost troll. They stopped at each shrine and left Klimmek’s offering of dried fish in a snow-covered chest.

            Inside, High Hrothgar was bleak and uninviting. His father had spent ten years of his life here? No wonder Ulfric was occasionally depressed. An old man, in a grey hooded robe trimmed with hawk feathers, approached them.

            “So, the Wheel turns and brings the Dragonborn to us,” he said gravely. “Why are you here?”

            “Well, after such a _loud_ invitation, how could we refuse?” Bjarni asked wryly. “We got a bit side-tracked on the way, but you know how that is.”

            “You sound familiar,” the old man said, brow wrinkling.

            “My father’s Ulfric Stormcloak.”

            “Yes, I see the resemblance now,” the Greybeard said dryly. His blue gaze switched to Callaina. “What lineage do you hail from?”

            “I am Aurelia Callaina, last of the Aurelii,” she said quietly.

            The Greybeard blanched. “The last?”

            “Arius decided that he had a claim to the Ruby Throne and rebelled after the White-Gold Concordat was signed, banning Talos worship. Titus Mede II disagreed and let the Aldmeri Dominion troops do as they would,” Callaina told him flatly. “I was spared because I was a child.”

            Bjarni looked between the two. The Greybeard was pale from a lack of sunlight but his skin was more olive than most Nords, his high forehead and beaky nose similar to Callaina’s, though her features were more rounded from her Redguard ancestry. “You’re one of the Aurelii, aren’t you?”

            “What I was is irrelevant, Dragonborn. I am now Arngeir.” He sighed gustily, the force of it blowing their hair back. “Arius was always impetuous and power-hungry. He never understood the reasons why the Aurelii stayed in the shadows after the Oblivion Crisis.”

            “Humour me and tell me why,” Callaina said flatly.

            “Why? It is the past. This is a place of peace and meditation, where you will learn the proper use of your Voice.”

            “Time is of a piece, though we break it up into digestible bits, Master Arngeir,” Bjarni told him. “The events of a hundred, two hundred years ago are still affecting us today. The banning of Talos worship has led my father to command an army to free Skyrim from the Empire that chose its existence over that of a god. Callaina’s griefs come from the sins of her father, grandfather and probably back to the Hero of Kvatch. So tell us or we walk, find the last of the Blades, and prepare to kick some draconic arse.”

            Callaina threw him a startled glance and Bjarni shook his head in subtle warning. He wanted answers from this old man.

            “Aurelia Northstar, for all of her virtues, was deemed unsuitable to the Elder Council as a regent,” the old man replied tightly. “Ocato was meant to rule for ten or twenty years, but the Thalmor murdered him. So it was decided that the Aurelii should remain in the shadows and protect their birthright from annihilation. I was eighty when I came here, still in my prime as a mage. I came to seek the Thu’um as my blood-right and weapon. Instead, I realised how ephemeral power is and chose to dedicate myself to service.”

            _Birthright? Blood-right?_

“Julius Martin,” Callaina said flatly.

            “Yes.” Arngeir sighed. “Set aside your anger, Callaina. It is best to use the Voice in a calm, controlled-“

            Bjarni forgot his sister also knew Unrelenting Force. Arngeir quickly learned she did when he landed flat on his arse.

            “You ran away!” she yelled as the other Greybeards walked in. “You left us and it got us all killed!”

            “KOOR-LAH-NAAR!” One of them, an old man with a bushy beard, thundered.

            Bjarni watched his sister throttle her rage as Arngeir managed to stand up. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “He left us, Wulfgar. My grandfather should never have commanded the Blades.”

            Wulfgar inclined his head in acknowledgement. Then the Greybeard came over and – much to Bjarni’s surprise – gave her a hug.

            “So, Callaina’s kinsman taught Ulfric the Voice, Ulfric married her mother and now one of the Greybeards is giving her a hug,” Ralof observed blandly. “Is there anyone who _isn’t_ related to her or you, Bjarni?”

            “Not me,” Farkas said. “I hope.”

            “What do you mean by birthright and blood-right?” Bjarni asked Arngeir. “All I’ve seen is most of the Aurelii seem to be arrogant shits.”

            The old man lifted his head proudly, his eyes burning like copper-fed flame. “Your sister, Ulfric’s son, is the last direct heir of Martin Septim. I am her great-grandfather… and his son.”

            On later reflection, making a running commentary on Arngeir’s moral fibre, sexual habits and personal hygiene in Dovahzul wasn’t perhaps the best option. But it stopped Callaina from crying, got Wulfgar and the other two Greybeards trying to stop their mountain-shaking laughter, and brought Paarthurnax down from his peak to them.

            The world just got a lot more interesting.


	14. Vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Twenty-five years on and little had changed. She sat at Wulfgar’s feet and listened to him whisper, the courtyard around them trembling with the power of his Voice, learning the history of the Greybeards. Whenever a storm threatened, he cleared it with a Shout; when the weather was clear, he taught her how to move with the speed of the wind in a Shout called Whirlwind Sprint. Bjarni learned the second Word of Unrelenting Force and the first of Whirlwind Sprint. She gained the remainder of Kyne’s Peace, the Shout that could calm beasts in the wild. The Greybeards were sparing with their training, wary of the two Dragonborn, and after a week Arngeir frostily told them it was time to reclaim the Horn of Yurgen Windcaller from Ustengrav.

            For all its peace and the pleasure of meeting her old childhood mentor once again, Callaina couldn’t escape High Hrothgar soon enough. She kept the snow off them by repeating the first Word of the Clear Skies Shout, leading Bjarni to joke that Wulfgar had taught her a couple more tricks than him.

            “No. I was trained as a mage in childhood. You learn to watch and listen. The Thu’um is a primal form of magic and… well… I’ve been very well trained in the theory of sorcery.”

            Vilkas brightened. “Like me and weaponry.”

            “Indeed. I won’t claim to be the greatest sorceress or Tongue, but I know how magic works.” Callaina shrugged as they climbed down the mountain. “It could even be that I was taught the Greybeards’ philosophy as a child and I don’t remember, but its precepts linger in my subconscious.”

            “Or it could be simply the fact you’re descended from Talos,” Ralof rumbled.

            Callaina sighed. “That’s fairly irrelevant to me. I don’t need or want the Ruby Throne.”

            “The Septim Empire is done for,” Bjarni said quietly. “It is a time for free nations to make their own choices.”

            _And how many will you drown in blood?_ Callaina wondered. But she said nothing. Paarthurnax had made it clear both were chosen for a reason.

            They reached Ivarstead and took Haemar’s Pass to Helgen. Bandits had set up shop there but the five dealt with them readily enough. Farkas and Vilkas left them at Whiterun Stables to report to their Harbinger. “Come to us as soon as you can,” Farkas told her with a smile. “Having the Dragonborn with us can only help Jorrvaskr.”

            “I will,” she promised. He was quite a lovely man.

            They caught a carriage to Morthal, which was near Ustengrav. The bogs were… something. Dark magics buzzed at the edge of Callaina’s consciousness. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “The last time I felt this way, I was killing liches in Underpall Cavern.”

            “Hjaalmarch is next to the Reach, mother to all dark magic in Skyrim,” Ralof growled. “It’s probably some Forsworn thing.”

            Entering the town to overnight there proved otherwise. A house had burned down and the family’s sole survivor moved in with the local beauty the next day. “This isn’t good,” Callaina murmured to Bjarni after the innkeep Jonna had given them the story. “I know we need to go to Ustengrav but…”

            “Something reeks,” Bjarni agreed. “We can spare a day and night. Maybe solving whatever happened will get Idgrod on the Stormcloaks’ side.”

            Idgrod was a woman aged beyond her years by care and prophetic powers. “So, life has brought you to Morthal and to me,” she wheezed. “What do you want?”

            “I’d like permission to investigate the recent deaths,” Callaina said with a slight bow. “I’m a Synodic Journeyman with some experience in dealing with undead and dark magics.”

            “You’re more than that, girl,” Idgrod said, her eyes gleaming. “But go and sift through the ashes others fear to touch. Perhaps you will find more than I have.”

            “Is this a good idea to do at night?” Bjarni asked as they searched through the burned ruins, sunset red and thick on the snow.

            “Paranormal activity happens most often then,” she replied absently.

            “By the Nine!” Ralof blurted. “A ghost!”

            The ghost was Helgi, Hroggar’s child. She died at the hands of Laelette, who had been turned into a vampire by someone called Alva. The woman, crazed by blood and perhaps guilt, attacked them and was made short work of by Ralof.

            “Laelette!” cried out a man in the darkness. “By the Nine… you-you killed her!”

            “She was a vampire, my friend,” Ralof said with a hint of sorrow. “This child ghost tells me she was turned by Alva.”

            “Laelette, a vampire?” blurted the man. “You’re joking!”

            Bjarni knelt down and peeled back Laelette’s lips, revealing the sharp fangs. “It is no lie. I swear by Talos and Kynareth it is so.”

            The stranger began to weep. “Alva told me she’d run off to join the Stormcloaks!”

            “Is Alva Hroggar’s new love?” Callaina asked gently. “Is she often out at night?”

            He nodded.

            “Where is her cottage? Come the dawn, I will speak to the Jarl, and get permission to search the place.”

            He wiped his eyes. “I am Thonnir. I work with Hroggar at the lumber mill. He’s usually working the afternoon shift.”

            “That will be helpful. Poor bastard’s been thralled.” Bjarni sighed. “I’m Bjarni, this is Ralof and the woman is Callaina.”

            “Bjarni Ulfricsson himself!” Thonnir bowed awkwardly. “I-I wish I could say I’m honoured…”

            “I don’t blame you, my friend.” Bjarni rose to his feet. “We’ve come bringing grim news.”

            “We should get some sleep,” Callaina said softly. “Tomorrow will be a busy day. If Alva’s turned others…”

            A short dream-filled nap later, dawn came too soon, and she was standing in Highmoon Hall waiting for an audience with the Jarl. Callaina wondered if she should have cleaned and mended her robes first; they were in shocking shape and the locally made robes beyond her reach at the moment. If she joined the Companions, she may need to switch to armour.

            “So, the Voice of Kyne wants an audience with me?” Idgrod asked as she entered the Great Hall.

            “That… was not my choice of name,” Callaina said tightly.

            “But it is what I knew you to be in my dreams,” Idgrod said dryly. “Descended from gods of the left and right hands, child of Kynareth, daughter of the lightning and the darkness-“

            “I need permission to search Alva’s house while she’s asleep during the day,” Callaina interrupted. “We have some fairly good evidence she’s a vampire and as you know…”

            “Wait until Hroggar’s at work. If he is thralled, he will be released from her spell,” Idgrod said.

            “We intended to. I think there’s more than her involved. Everything is too… organised.” Callaina crossed her arms. “Not the first time I’ve hunted undead, though that was a lich and her pet necromancers.”

            “It would fit what Falion, my court wizard and a priest of Tu’whacca, says,” Idgrod said. “Speak to him and then search Alva’s cottage after lunch. If there is more, his power will be needed.”

            Falion was a handsome middle-aged Redguard whose smile hinted at grim things in the darkness. “It isn’t every day a god-touched pays a visit to Morthal,” he observed.

            “I bet you don’t have a vampire set up shop here every day either.”

            “It happens more than you think. As the crow flies, we’re not far from Castle Volkihar, and it’s said their matriarch Valerica the Death-Witch hailed from Hjaalmarch.” Falion crossed over to the shelves and pulled out several glass bottles that glittered silver in the firelight. “Is it just you and me?”

            “Bjarni and Ralof will give a hand, if they know what’s good for them.”

            Once Hroggar went to work, it was child’s play to enter Alva’s simple cottage. She had a copy of _Immortal Blood_ by the bedside. And, of course, her coffin was in the cellar. Rendered unconscious and inert by the sun, she made one gasp as Falion drove a silver dagger into her heart and collapsed into ash. “Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “I needed some vampire dust for my cures.”

            “This is why priests of Tu’whacca and Arkay have no friends,” Callaina said as she picked up a small leather-bound diary from beside the coffin.

            “Yes, because we all aspire to join the ass-kissing social club known as the Synod,” he retorted sardonically. “What does the diary say?”

            “You’ve got a coven of vampires led by Morvath Piquale just outside the town,” she said, leafing through the pages. “They were going to take over the town and turn you into blood cattle.”

            “Lovely. This will convince Idgrod to act. Your two big friends might even be useful.”

            Idgrod gathered some of her guards after reading the diary. “Hurry,” she ordered. “Sunset is near.”

            Morvath’s lair was as horrendous as anything she’d seen, even Underpall, and the thralls cut down two guards. The bottles Falion carried were full of silver dust that seared the vampires to the bone, allowing Bjarni and Ralof to cut them down as they screamed. Morvath was tougher but he still died. Everyone drank cure disease potions mixed up by Falion. Callaina chose not to speculate on the ingredients used.

            _And we’ve still got Ustengrav ahead of us,_ she thought grimly. _Kynareth preserve us._


	15. Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, child neglect, adultery and child soldiers.

 

“This ancient Nord habit of entombing important people with lots of draugr is getting tedious,” Callaina said as she set fire to another undead guardian of Ustengrav. “I thought some of the Ayleid ruins in Cyrodiil were bad, but this… this is a bloody joke.”

            “It’s a holdover from the Dragon Cult days,” Bjarni admitted as he brained the burning draugr with his axe.

            “Well, I wish I could round up a few priests and lay every draugr to rest in this damned place. I hated dealing with them in Cyrodiil and I hate doing it here.”

            Ralof broke the legs of two draugr with his warhammer. “I thought you just mixed potions and enchanted things for the Synod?”

            “I did. I was also the go-to Journeyman for anything dangerous the Synod needed done. Like taking on an entire coven as organised as Lu’ah’s at Underpall.” Callaina gestured and dragged a draugr across the fire traps until it was ash. “They cited my Legion experience as the reason, but I think they were trying to kill me.”

            “Titus Mede hated your family that much?” Bjarni asked.

            “More like feared. My grandfather’s actions aside, we were descended from the Hero of Kvatch. Maybe he even knew about her and Martin’s relationship.” She Telekinetically threw another draugr off the winding path into the water below. “My grandfather was an idiot and a lot of people suffered for it.”

            They eventually made their way to the Word Wall and the gates which required Whirlwind Sprint. With three people, it was child’s play to get through the doors, though Bjarni rather thought the fire traps and the spiders were a bit much. They were walking through the inner sanctum, water sinking and hawk-claw statues rising, when Ralof saw the dead draugr.

            “Someone’s been here already.”

            Oh yes, they had, and taken the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller with them. They kindly left a note for the Dragonborn to rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood.

            “It doesn’t _have_ an attic room,” Ralof said flatly.

            “Of course not. Delphine’s finally shown her hand. She’s gotten tacky and clumsy over the years.” Callaina put the note in her tattered mage robes. His sister really needed a new set of clothing.

            “Delphine? How do you know…?”

            “She’s a _Blade_ , remember?” Callaina’s tone was more than a little exasperated and impatient. “Probably one of the last few and maybe the only one keeping her oaths.”

            “You don’t have much respect for her,” Bjarni noted.

            “She was with my uncle Irkand, then dumped him for my father Rustem and committed adultery on our mother,” Callaina said acidly. “The last days of the Blades were like a bad High Rock romantic tragedy and a how-not-to guide.”

            “You know, I’m beginning to understand why Mother’s got so many issues,” Bjarni observed. “So now what?”

            “We go to Riverwood and get that damned horn. Delphine will probably want to drag us around killing dragons and Thalmor.” Callaina smiled thinly. “Finding out there are two Dragonborn, both of whom have their own agendas, should be… interesting for her.”

…

“You deign to visit me again,” Delphine said sarcastically as Callaina, looking much more the worse for wear, walked into the Sleeping Giant Inn’s main guest room with Sigdrifa’s hulking elder son in her wake. “Have you finally made time in your busy schedule to study dragons?”

            “Where’s the bloody horn?” she asked flatly. “I don’t have time for your shit, Delphine.”

            The Blade crossed her forearms. “I want to talk to the Dragonborn.”

            “Which one?” Bjarni asked, his rich bass amused.

            “…Which one?” The little she remembered on Esbern’s lectures indicated that the Last Dragonborn was in the singular, not the plural.

            “Akatosh, in His infinite wisdom, has decided to visit the blessing of the Thu’um upon me and Bjarni,” Callaina said flatly. “Please give me a reason to demonstrate it. I just made a trip to the marsh-end of Skyrim for nothing.”

            Bjarni smirked. “You forget, Ralof used to live here, and he told us there wasn’t an attic room.”

            Delphine held up her hands peaceably. “I got sloppy,” she conceded. It was painful, but she’d get it over with so that these two would cooperate. “The horn’s in my-“

            There was the sound of wood splintering and Bjarni’s smirk became a grin. “Yes. Ralof just found the secret door to your secret hidey-hole in the cellar.”

            Delphine took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You’ve completely blown my cover, you know.”

            “To be honest, Delphine Revanche, I’m not sure I particularly care,” Bjarni said, dropping the good-natured goofball act. The resemblance to Sigdrifa was uncanny when he was angry. “You made a bad situation worse in the Blades. You dishonoured my mother. And now you’ve committed sacrilege and broken into a holy site out of some sense of melodrama when a simple waiting outside could have sufficed.”

            “You don’t think I know that?” Delphine countered. “Bjarni, you have no idea what it was like. Arius was nuttier than a fruitcake with a side of paranoia to boot. Sigdrifa… She used to make Callaina stand outside in the courtyard on snowy or rainy days to try and toughen her up. Rustem might have been First Blade, the heir, but he was absolutely powerless because, on top of everything, Arius had trained Irkand as a killer practically from birth. He might have even killed or had his Redguard wife killed.”

            She inhaled shakily. “I joined up with Rustem, Esbern and Wulfgar – I don’t think you know him-“

            “We do. He’s with the Greybeards,” Callaina interrupted.

            “Fine.” Delphine sighed heavily. “We were planning a coup, okay? Rustem was trying to get Sigdrifa to divorce him so she’d be out of the way and Arius would have none of Dengeir’s support. We waited until Irkand was missing in action so we didn’t have to fight him. Rustem went to Hammerfell to deflect suspicion from himself. Do you know how the Thalmor caught us by surprise? Because none of us counted on Arius being a master Illusion sorcerer who could override the Blades’ better judgment and the goldskins attacked us as we were reeling from the failed attack on Fort Pale Pass. He made us fight and stand and die! If I hadn’t managed to wrest free of the spell and get Esbern out of there…”

            “I was left to die,” Callaina said bitterly. “Give me a reason why I should give a shit about any of you?”

            Delphine inhaled slowly, calming herself, before replying. “Because I think the Thalmor know where Esbern is and we need him for his knowledge of dragonlore.”


	16. Embassy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment and mentions of torture, genocide and religious conflict.

 

“This is a moronic idea,” Callaina muttered under her breath as they climbed out of the carriage in front of the iron-fenced, stone-built Thalmor Embassy.

            “I know,” Bjarni said as softly. “That’s why it will work.”

            “Another late arrival! By carriage, no less,” observed a drunk well-dressed Redguard who was already swaying. “You have style.”

            She ignored him and presented the invitation to the Altmer guard. The womer scanned it and said, “Welcome to the embassy, sir and madam.”

            Inside, the building was decorated in classic Alinor style, copper braziers everywhere to imitate Summerset’s tropical heat. Finely dressed nobles of several different races milled around the main room and a haughty womer with dramatic black makeup greeted each new arrival with a poisonous smile. Callaina met her yellow eyes for the first time since Cloud Ruler Temple and its destruction.

            “Aurelia Callaina,” greeted Elenwen, daughter of Naarifin, wife of Nurancar and mother of Nurancar the Younger, with a faint smile. “When your name appeared on the guest list, I must confess to a certain… surprise.”

            “I’m a little surprised you’re mixing with us human riffraff, “ Callaina responded calmly. “Shouldn’t you be plotting to destroy the material world or something?”

            “It’s my scheduled day off,” Elenwen said dryly. “What brings you here?”

            “To see if anyone has heard about the dragons,” Callaina admitted. “By the way, Madame Ambassador, don’t try to stop the Dragonborn. Alduin will only consume the world and regurgitate it in another form.”

            “I thought the Blades dragonlore had been lost.”

            “I have a good memory. If anyone understood the ramifications of Alduin, it was the Akaviri – they believed that when the World-Eater fulfils his duty, all mortal life will be reborn as dragon – invincible, immutable… and eternally locked in flesh.” Callaina smiled as Elenwen went an unhealthy sallow hue. “Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”

            The womer managed a thin smile. “For the dragon crisis at least, Callaina. Consider it professional courtesy.”

            She took herself and Bjarni appeared, having snuck past, with a bottle of brandy in hand. “You rattled her. By the way, I'm Ilak Tossinoff.”

            “She’ll never admit it, but I think she’s scared of the Aurelii. My grandfather almost killed her in a mage duel, Uncle Irkand gave her a permanent collapsed lung, and I’m betting she knows what I am.” Callaina grabbed a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. “Mix for a bit and we’ll speak later.”

            Much to her concern, Idgrod was there, talking to a tall, lean mer with unusually pale sclera for an Altmer. “So, the Voice of Kyne attends parties these days,” the old Jarl remarked with a wry smile. “Callaina, this is Ondolemar, Chief Justicar of Skyrim. Ondolemar, this is Callaina Voice-of-Kyne, the Dragonborn.”

            “Aurelia Callaina,” Ondolemar greeted in haughty tones, just the faintest burr underneath the arrogance. His features weren’t as long and lean as a typical Altmer, having a rounded quality to the cheekbones and brow, and his eyes were green-gold. “I haven’t seen you since you were a child.”

            “I remember,” she said flatly.

            “You’re alive because I stopped them from killing the children of Cloud Ruler, Dragonborn,” he said quietly. “Remember that.”

            Before she could reply, the drunk Redguard got to his feet, swaying. “Attention everyone! Could I have your attention, please! I have an announcement to make! I propose a toast to Elenwen! Our Mistress! I speak figuratively, of course. Nothing could be more unlikely than that someone would actually want her in their bed. Although... most of you are already in bed with her! But again... I speak figuratively, of course!”

            “Let’s go,” Bjarni murmured in her ear. “Malborn’s got the door.”

            They entered the kitchen and the Bosmer locked the door behind them. “I’ve given the cook moon sugar, so she’s out of it for the next hour or so,” he said. “Good luck. I better get back to the party.”

            Callaina and Bjarni found the chest containing their equipment in a storeroom. “There will be guards, mostly swordsmen, through the building,” she told her younger brother. “Even the least of them has been fighting for longer than your father’s been alive.”

            Bjarni cracked his knuckles. “I know how to fight, sister. Ralof taught me and he’s the dirtiest fighter I know. Plus I know some Illusion magic.”

            The Thalmor soldiers weren’t expecting to be confronted by a pair of Nords, one of whom wielded a sword which ignored their armour and the other cast a Frenzy spell. Callaina ransacked the personal quarters and office, taking whatever valuables and paperwork she could find, while Bjarni made sure of the guards and watched for more.

            Getting across the yard to Elenwen’s solar was more difficult. Bjarni was about to cast Frenzy on the nearest Justicar, when Ondolemar strode outside and began ordering the soldiers into different search patterns. They obeyed, leaving the courtyard and door clear, and Ondolemar looked over his shoulder directly at them, nodding to the door.

            Callaina emerged from hiding, lightning in her hand. “Why are you doing this?” she asked softly, prepared to take him down if need be.

            Much to her shock, he bowed Akaviri-style. “Because you are the Dragonborn. Get inside – I can’t distract these idiots for long.”

            “Wait, you’re _Marius Aurelius_. He’s the only Altmer Blade-“

            “Yes, little cousin. Now get inside and perhaps we will meet again.”

            Inside, Bjarni muttered, “Okay, do you have any troll or Orc relatives I need to know about?”

            “The Hero of Kvatch’s father was an Orc, apparently.” They heard a man’s rough tones begging for more money from another Altmer agent. “Shall we take out some trash?”

            Third Emissary Whateverhisname and the beggar Gissur were surprised to be confronted by the Dragonborn. Bjarni buried his axe in the Altmer’s skull and Gissur broke his head on the floor after slipping on ice Callaina had cast. There wasn’t much more than expensive potions and a pair of golden circlets in the room… But next door was the office, which contained information. One of the files had ‘Ulfric Stormcloak’ on the cover.

            “I’ll read it later,” Bjarni said, tucking it into his pack. “What’s the other two about?”

            “File on Delphine and one on dragons,” she said. “We’ll worry about them later. I think the only exit from this place is through the dungeons.”

            It was like Elenwen to have her office next to the interrogation chamber and prison. “I’ve told you everything I know,” protested a weak voice. “Please, stop!”

            “I don’t think you have, Etienne,” crooned the Thalmor torturer. “Where. Is. Esbern? I know he pays your Guild for protection.”

            “Ratway. I told you…”

            “He needs to recover a bit,” said another Altmer in a detached tone. “Why don’t we go practice a bit more on the Storm-brat?”

            “Egil? Little bastard’s learned Vigilant meditative techniques.”

            “I know. Think of it as a learning experience in interrogating priests.”

            _Egil?_ Belatedly, Callaina realised that was the name of her third brother. By then, Bjarni had broken cover with a roar and fallen upon the two Thalmor. He started with the Battle-Cry, striking them both with an overwhelming sense of fear before wielding his axe with ferocious speed. When one started to call lighting, he was Shouted to the ground.

            Callaina Telekinetically dragged the prison keys to her hand and went to the cells. One held a battered Breton – Etienne – and the other a slightly leaner version of Bjarni, covered in bruises, his eyes closed.

            “Let’s go,” she said to Etienne, who cracked open his eyes. “The Thalmor have other concerns-“

            “We have Malborn,” said an arrogant Altmer voice from the stairs. “He will die, as shall you, Blade!”

            “Go ahead,” Malborn said hopelessly. “I’m going to die anyway.”

            Callaina quickly unlocked Etienne’s bonds. “Go!”

            The Thief didn’t hang around to enjoy more Thalmor hospitality, heading for the trapdoor and leaving. Callaina sprinted up the stairs just as the Thalmor guard lifted his sword to kill Malborn.

            “Jump!” she ordered the Bosmer as she palmed a scroll. Miracle of miracles, he obeyed.

            “Do you think you’re getting away?” Elenwen asked sweetly as she joined the other two. “Callaina, I thought we had an agreement.”

            “Hunting down Esbern broke that agreement,” Callaina said tightly. “You really should have stayed in Cyrodiil, Elenwen.”

            “And why is that, dear?”

            “Because I am the storm that you have reaped from the lightning you sowed at Cloud Ruler Temple.”

            And with that, she read the Lightning Storm scroll and unleashed its power.

            Battered by wind and lightning, she dashed down the stairs as Bjarni undid Egil’s bonds, him and Malborn catching Ulfric’s youngest son. He was locked away in a trance as priests could be. They could worry about him later.

            The trapdoor was opened on the other side; Etienne had hung around, it seemed.

            “Are you really Blades?” he asked as they slammed it shut, grabbing a prop of wood to keep it closed.

            “No.” Bjarni smiled weakly. “We’re Dragonborn.”

            Then he lightly slapped Egil. “Wake up, idiot! Mother’s going to inspect our rooms!”

            Egil’s eyes opened and sense returned to them. “What…?”

            “You got captured by Thalmor. We’ve just busted you out,” Bjarni said quickly. “Can you walk?”

            “Think so…”

            There was a troll in the way. Callaina and Etienne set it on fire.

            “Who are they?” Egil asked Bjarni, leaning on his arm.

            “The lady’s our sister. The guy’s some Thief who knows where the last Blades archivist is. The Bosmer just pissed off Elenwen.”

            They emerged into sunlight, standing on a path that overlooked the Sea of Ghosts. “It’s a day’s hike to Dawnstar, maybe longer because of Egil and Etienne,” Bjarni said.

            Callaina took a deep breath. “We’ll go to the Solitude docks and hire a fisherman.”

            There was one. Callaina handed him the two golden circlets and expensive potions. “How far do you go?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. She hoped Marius was alright. How long had he been in deep cover?

            “Dawnstar,” said the man. “You in a hurry?”

            “We just trashed the Thalmor embassy and saved their prisoners,” Bjarni said. “Just by talking to us, you’re a suspect now.”

            “Bjarni! Is that Egil?” the fisherman asked.

            “Yep.”

            “Get in. I’m Ragnar Broken-Tusk. Just hide under the nets and fish until we’re on the open sea.”

            Ragnar Broken-Tusk was a horker hunter and deep-sea fisherman out of Dawnstar, with a son who studied at the College of Winterhold and another who served in the Stormcloak navy. It seemed this wasn’t the first time he’d ferried Stormcloak agents leaving Haafingar in a hurry.

            Etienne had fallen asleep, Malborn was watching everything warily, and Egil was being bandaged by Bjarni. “Gunnar’s dead,” he said quietly. “That clutch of bandits was a ruse.”

            “They’ll answer for it all,” Bjarni promised. “We’re just a bit preoccupied with the dragons at the moment.”

            “Give me a sword and I’ll do it myself,” Egil growled.

            “And if you don’t do it smart, you’ll get yourself killed,” Callaina said. “Delphine won’t be happy how that went, not if we don’t beat the Thalmor to Esbern. Worse yet, we may have lost Marius.”

            Egil’s right hand curled into a fist. “You can be calm about it-“

            “I’ve seen Thalmor atrocities. Mother decided Talosian relics were more important than me at Cloud Ruler,” Callaina said bitterly. “Now, will you compare misery with misery until the World-Eater devours us all or will you put this supposedly tactical mind of yours to achieving revenge wisely?”

            Bjarni smiled when Egil looked at him. “She’s our big sister. You should listen to her.”


	17. Septim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of imprisonment, religious conflict, death, violence and torture. If you’re curious about Marius and Sidgara, I recommend reading ‘Red Rage Raw’, which is the story of my HoK Aurelia Northstar.

 

“Rikke! Legate Primus Rikke!”

            Being awoken by banging on her door wasn’t likely to put Rikke in the sweetest mood to begin with. Having the one doing the banging be Ondolemar, senior Thalmor Justicar in Skyrim, had her drawing her gladius from its sheath by the bed and placing the point against his sallow throat as she opened the door. If he was going to take her to Northwatch Keep, she might die, but he’d accompany her to the afterlife.

            “Don’t be stupid,” Ondolemar said flatly. Then he made a gesture with his right hand that made Rikke drop her jaw with shock.

            “How do you know that sign?” she asked, collecting herself.

            “I learned it from Sidgara,” the Altmer hissed. “My name is Marius and I’ve been in deep cover for the past hundred and fifty years. Now please remove your sword from my throat.”

            Sidgara had been a legendary Shieldmaiden during the Oblivion Crisis. Rikke lowered her sword, but called frost to her other hand in case this was a ruse.

            Ondolemar rubbed his throat reflexively. “Thank you. Officially, I’m here to call for a Legion investigation into the blatant Stormcloak attack on the Thalmor Embassy that resulted in the death of Ambassador Elenwen and the escape of Ulfric’s younger son Egil, a known heretic.”

            “Give me a moment to properly express my sorrow for your loss,” Rikke said sarcastically.

            The mer smiled thinly. “Aurelia Callaina cast Lightning Storm in the dungeons after ransacking Elenwen’s office. I suspect she, Bjarni and Egil are going to Windhelm and then Riften to rescue Esbern, a Blades loremaster.”

            “Wait, _what?_ ” Rikke demanded.

            “Legate, I am pleased to announce that the Oblivion Crisis didn’t see the end of the Septim Dynasty,” Ondolemar said with some asperity. “Aurelia Callaina is the last one of the line direct who isn’t beholden to a Daedric Prince or a Divine’s assassin. She’s one of the Dragonborn-“

            _“What?”_ Rikke yelped.

            “The other is Bjarni Ulfricsson, I believe.” Ondolemar smiled thinly once more.

            “Sigdrifa whelped two Dragonborn? Talos have mercy, she must be more insufferable than usual about it.” Rikke sheathed her sword and went to don her armour. “Are you still in deep cover?”

            “I will try to maintain it for as long as possible. But we need to do something about Northwatch Keep.”

            Rikke snorted. “Ulfric will take care of it. But… if Callaina’s with the rebels…”

            “The Mede Empire is tottering,” Ondolemar said quietly. “And we have a Dragonborn Septim. I’ve waited a hundred and fifty years for this, Legate.”

            “You’re technically talking treason.”

            “Things are already set in motion. Be ready for when the time comes.” Ondolemar nodded sharply. “And keep the Legion from killing Bjarni and Callaina.”

            “Easier said than done,” she muttered.

…

“No wonder Talos tried to conquer the world if this is where he’s from,” Malborn said sarcastically as Ragnar tied up at the Windhelm docks.

            “He’s actually from the Reach,” Callaina said over her shoulder, climbing stiffly out of the boat. “He was called Atmorani because he was of lowlander stock – or so I was told once by a Reacher Nord.”

            Egil accepted the hand she offered to disembark. This woman was the darker, rounder, shorter version of Sigdrifa Stormsword and in her moments of icy sarcasm, the resemblance was uncanny. Her pupils flashed red-green in the light just like Bjarni’s and there was the edge of distant thunder to their voices. When she cleared the mist in the trait near Winterhold, he believed she was Dragonborn. The rest of it was… doubtful.

            “We must go to the Temple of Talos,” he said aloud.

            “I thought you worshipped Stendarr,” Callaina said, her brow furrowing.

            “I do. But there is something there that will prove the truth of Bjarni’s claim you’re a Septim.”

            “Why don’t you shout it a little louder, Egil? I don’t think they heard you in Solitude,” Bjarni said dryly.

            “My lineage means little to me. I intend to base myself in Whiterun and join the Companions,” Callaina said flatly.

            Egil took a deep breath and released it slowly. He’d been tortured and imprisoned by the Thalmor for almost a week after seeing his loyal men executed. But Bjarni had explained Callaina suffered the psychological torment inflicted by a wrathful Emperor with no other means of vengeance. Getting angry with her for her weakness would be like getting angry with himself for failure; natural, but counterproductive.

            “You don’t understand what it would mean to the Nords of Skyrim,” he said quietly. “If you can prove you’re a Septim, with one stroke, you could give something that will unite us. I suspect even many Cyrods would be glad to grind the Medes into dust, for what they’ve done.”

            Callaina set her jaw mulishly and Bjarni smirked. “Mother always said that the reason Dengeir refused to aid Arius was because the man lied about being a Septim. If you draw the Sword of the Septims, it will shut her up… and Egil too.”

            Their mother had actually said no such thing, but it made a hideous amount of sense. Egil knew that Skyrim’s freedom to worship was a just cause, but he had trouble with some of the tactics his mother used, and tried to temper them with Stendarr’s mercy.

            “Wars are fought with hearts and minds, sister. You don’t need to become the Empress… but we will need a focus for the greater fight against the Thalmor. Like it or not, you’re the best option.”

            “You’ve declared war on them by killing Elenwen,” Malborn said quietly. “I mean, that’s a service to the world and all, but they’re going to come for you and everything you hold dear.”

            “Fine! Let’s get this over with. That’s assuming it’s the real Sword of the Septims. They had a few varied weapons. Uncle Irkand fights with the wazikashis and Dad used the naginata…”

            Etienne followed in their footsteps. Egil pitied the young man, for he’d been tortured until he broke. “I was saved by the last Septim,” the Breton breathed. “Am I in a tale?”

            Bretons were a little strange. It was the magic and chivalry that got to them.

            Word spread about their return and Ralof met them in front of the Temple of Talos. “By the Nine, Egil, we didn’t know-“

            “I’m free and we will pay the Thalmor in kind,” Egil finished grimly. “But first, we need to verify my sister’s ancestry.”

            “I was there and heard the son of Martin Septim tell us himself,” Ralof said. “Your parents are in the Temple.”

            Inside, the grim interior of the Temple, dominated by various Talosian relics salvaged by his parents over the years, was lit with dozens of tallow dips. Sigdrifa and Ulfric were rising from the pew and turning around when Callaina gestured, a blue-green glow in her palm. The Sword of the Septims flew from its place at Talos’ feet to her hand.

            With the other, her expression grim, she drew the sword from its grey-brown sheath.

            A katana, broken about one third the way down, its blade was grey-brown and glittered with an edge of stars from the enchantments. The hilt was a long ivory fang with a polished gold pommel and Akaviri characters were etched into the blade’s base.

            _“Happy?”_ she demanded. “I’m a fucking Septim. Hip hip hoo-fuckin’-ray.”

            They didn’t put _that_ in the legend songs about this day for generations to come.


	18. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The news sped across Skyrim like a wildfire. A Septim, a genuine Septim, had revealed herself in Windhelm’s Temple of Talos. Her brother too was Dragonborn, no doubt of Wulfharth or Ysgramor’s line. She destroyed the Thalmor embassy with a storm while he could drive a dragon to the ground with the power of his Thu’um. They were myth made incarnate, the hope of the Nords turned into flesh.

            “So. You’re a Septim. How do you feel about that?”

            “I’m a Sword-Saint of Hammerfell,” Cirroc said over his shoulder as his father walked into the main room of the embassy in Solitude. “That’s more than enough for me.”

            Rustem rested his naginata across his shoulders. A strange weapon, a shortsword on a spear-haft, all made from strange grey-brown metal, ivory and cedar. He had an affinity for two-handed weapons that would have done a Nord proud, but always preferred the naginata.

            “I’ve received a job that will alter the course of history in Tamriel,” he finally said. “You and Beroc should leave Imperial territory.”

            “Why is that?” Beroc, Lord Ambassador to Skyrim and Cirroc’s grandfather, asked gravely.

            “Someone’s finally paid the asking price for a certain Colovian whose arse is planted on a certain throne,” Rustem answered after a pause. “More than that, you really shouldn’t know.”

            Beroc was faster than Cirroc – but then, he understood politics. The old Forebear’s grin was positively savage. Cirroc supposed he should be appalled by the implication that the assassination of the Emperor was being planned… but he was a son of the sands and Mede had betrayed the Redguards.

            “Cirroc, it is time Hammerfell had a greater hand in events,” Beroc said, turning to the youth. “You will be our representative to the Dragonborn. Assist them in every way so long as it doesn’t compromise our security or sovereignty.”

            “I don’t think Callaina likes me very much,” he admitted.

            “Given you can be an amazingly arrogant little shit at times, I can’t fault her,” Rustem drawled. “Just because you’re a First-Rank Ansei doesn’t mean you’re the shit outside the monastery. I learned that kind of lesson young in the Great War.”

            “Vilkas made that abundantly clear,” Cirroc said sourly.

            “Better you learned it now than on the end of a Thalmor’s sword,” Beroc said gravely. “Even Frandar Hunding needed to learn humility to truly understand the sword-singer’s art.”

            The old man turned to Rustem. “My absence will be noticed on the heels of such news.”

            “The Thalmor will try to take it out on you – or the Legion believe you complicit with the Stormcloaks,” Rustem said.

            “I know. The days of the Septim Empire are dead. Soon, I will be too.” Beroc clasped his hands behind his back. “I am a Priest of HoonDing. We will make way over these infidels of the Mede Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion.”

            Cirroc didn’t understand what he meant. “Grandfather-“

            “Ansei, you have your orders.” Beroc’s eyes gleamed. “I’m proud of you, Cirroc. Never doubt that. Now go, both of you.”

            They obeyed and Cirroc never saw his grandfather again.

…

“So, it’s true.”

            “It’s true,” Hadvar confirmed. “Our agent saw it with his own eyes.”

            Legate Rikke turned from him and looked out at the courtyard of Castle Dour. “I’d been told by… another source. But I wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not.”

            “I know the feeling,” the Quaestor admitted. “That loudmouthed shit Bjarni as Dragonborn, that shrinking Synodic mage as the last Septim…”

            “Technically not the last, but the one who is nominally loyal to the Empire,” Rikke corrected. “What do the men make of it?”

            “It’s going to be complicated if we go up against the Stormcloaks,” Hadvar finally said. “They seem to have the favour of the gods on their side.”

            “Until the Stormsword manages to ruin it,” Rikke said sourly. Then she took a deep breath. “The Redguards?”

            “Rustem and Cirroc left Solitude early this morning. Because of diplomatic protocols, they weren’t stopped.”

            “Fuck. FUCK!” Rikke swore. “Marius, you goldskin mother-“

            She caught herself. “Tighten security around the Blue Palace and Castle Dour. Contact Maro at Dragon Bridge. His Penitus Oculatus can earn their keep for a change.”

            “Ma’am?” Hadvar asked, confused.

            “That’s an order, Quaestor. You know Rustem’s with the Dark Brotherhood, right?” At Hadvar’s blank look, the Legate growled in frustration. “The Emperor, man! They’ve been hired to kill the Emperor!”

            “By who, the Stormcloaks?” Hadvar asked.

            “Probably not. For all intents and purposes, I think this plot was set in motion by the Thalmor but one of the remaining Blades has hijacked it.” Rikke’s smile was thin. “If Mede dies and Cyrodiil is in disarray…”

            “The Council will be desperate and who better to take the Ruby Throne than the last Septim?” General Tullius said from the doorway. “Quaestor, do as the Legate ordered.”

            Hadvar saluted and left. By the gods, it made sense. By the gods… They could have a Septim on the Ruby Throne and their god back.

            Even the children of Sithis could be tools in the hands of Talos.

…

“Commander Maro.”

            Beroc’s voice was calm and grave, dignified as always. The old Redguard stood in the middle of the Hammerfell Embassy’s reception chamber, leaning slightly on his polished teak cane.

            “Where’s Rustem?” Gaius Maro the Elder demanded.

            “He left on family business. Quite the interesting news, isn’t it? The Septims aren’t dead after all.”

            “I thought Hammerfell would be displeased about that. You insist you’re not part of the Empire anymore.”

            “We aren’t, be it Mede or reborn Septim or an empire of dragons.” Beroc regarded him with one arched eyebrow. “What brings the Emperor’s bastard son to the embassy?”

            “Rustem is a member of the Dark Brotherhood. I have warrants for his arrest.”

            “Technically, he is a Son of Satakal, a Redguard order analogous to the Dark Brotherhood and often working in concert with them. But I suppose the distinction means little to you Cyrods, so comfortable in your sense of cultural supremacy.”

            “Care to explain what you mean?” Maro said through gritted teeth.

            “I’m saying that you Cyrods are an arrogant breed who believe they are the heart of the world,” Beroc said serenely. “You come into lands where you are not welcome, you crush their native cultures, and you expect them to thank you for it.”

            Maro took a deep breath. “Yes, because Hammerfell was _so_ united before we brought you into the Empire.”

            “There you go again, insisting that the invasion and conquest of our lands was the best thing for us. How typically… Cyrod.” Beroc’s smile was chilly. “Hammerfell is free of any Empire now and will remain so until the end of time. How will Cyrodiil survive when its hegemony over the lands eventually crumbles? For in your conquest was sown the seeds of the Thalmor, the Stormcloaks and the Alik’r-“

            Maro drew his sword instinctively. “We were invited in by the Forebears!”

            “Who quickly realised their mistake.” Beroc’s hand rested on his cane, the grip shifting. Maro damn well knew there was a hidden blade in the teak cane.

            Instinctively, he ran the Hammerfell Ambassador through. Beroc smiled, mouth red with blood.

            “In your victory lies your defeat, Maro, for the infidel cannot truly conquer the faithful and the bold.”

…

“Cirroc?”

            They were on a boat halfway to the P ale when the young Sword-Saint stiffened. Rustem watched the colour drain from his son’s face. “Cirroc?” he repeated and received a look of despair and grief in return.

            “Grandpa… He’s dead. Maro killed him.”

            The assassin wrapped an arm around his son’s wiry shoulders. Cirroc was so young, a little bit younger than he had been when he married Sigdrifa and begun this whole sorry coil. “I believe you, but… how do you know?”

            “You’re not Redguard. I mean, you are, but you’re Cyrod-born.” Cirroc pulled back his loose purple sleeve to show the intricate tattoo that most Forebears wore on their right arm. “It’s… kind of blood magic, I guess. The red lines are your living lineage, the black ones your dead one. When someone dies, it goes black and cold.”

            “I see. But…?”

            “It’s a Shehai thing. Grandfather trained with the sword-singers and learned to manifest a Shehai. He was the hidden Sword-Saint.” Cirroc’s eyes were streaming. “Every Sword-Saint knows how another dies and who killed them.”

            “Satakal take Maro. I knew the old man was acting as bait, but…”

            “It’s more than that,” Cirroc said. “He’s given us leave to act freely against the Empire… To do what is necessary to make way over the infidel. Me and T’roc think that once the Legion crushed the Stormcloaks, they were going to turn their attention to Hammerfell in the name of ‘unity’ against the Dominion.”

            “They were,” Rustem said grimly. “The Thalmor were shitting themselves over the possibility.”

            Cirroc sniffled. Gods, he was young. Eighteen, nineteen? “I know what he did what needed to be done but…”

            “He was your grandpa. A damned good man. He was more my father than my own.” Rustem hugged his son tightly. “Maro will pay for what he’s done. Before the end, my boy, he will know what it is like to lose everything and be alone. So will Mede. They hurt our family and punished the innocent.”

            Rustem looked towards the east. “And if I have to be civil to Sigdrifa to get it done… Well, I’ll swallow my pride.”


	19. Allegiances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“I don’t need or want an escort!” Callaina snapped. “I need to ride to Riften to find Esbern and septims to sewerage he’ll be hiding under the auspices of the Thieves’ Guild. Your soldiers will just get in the way.”

            “She’s right,” Bjarni agreed. “Da, let Callaina handle Riften. We need to do something about the Empire while they’re reeling from the news.”

            “It’s funny you should mention that,” Ulfric said. “Balgruuf sent me an axe this morning. His message said it wasn’t for me, but the High King who would be.”

            “Bjarni’s more popular and has a better grasp of the interracial politics of Skyrim than you,” Callaina said bluntly. “Like it or not, people other than Nords live here and won’t be going anywhere. Balgruuf and his ilk will want the Dragonborn who reminds them of the cosmopolitan Talos, not the xenophobic Wulfharth.”

            Ulfric inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Do you disagree with the children of Skyrim, Callaina?”

            “Speaking as someone who’s lived her life as a commoner, most people don’t care who’s in charge so long as they can eat, work and live in peace,” Callaina said quietly. “The Empire needs to change, aye. But Skyrim is still in Tamriel and must accept that it is part of a greater whole.”

            She rose to her feet. “I’ll leave the politics to you and Bjarni. My goal is to find Esbern. What I know of dragonlore came from him.”

            It took two days to reach Riften, an unlovely city on the banks of Lake Honrich. A flat stare got her past the gate guards demanding a bribe for entrance to the city. Another flat stare had the armoured thug skulking near the inn leave quickly. She found her way to the marketplace, where a handsome auburn-haired man in blue cotton brocade sidled up to her.

            “Runnin’ a little light in the pockets, lass?” he asked.

            She met his emerald gaze with one of her own. “I have other things on my mind. You’re Guild, right?”

            “Maybe.” His smile deepened. “You could do me a favour, lass.”

            “I am. I’m Aurelia Callaina and I need access to the Ratway. As we speak, Thalmor could be trying to hunt down a man under your protection.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I won’t even tell anyone that your ‘Falmerblood Elixir’ is a cheap cold infusion.”

            His eyes widened. “You’re the Dragonborn?”

            “One of them at any rate.”

            He rubbed his bearded chin. “Fine. Vekel will tell you where to find him; give the man a bribe, he’s had a bad week. You want more from us, you’ll have to earn it.”

            “Trust me, me and your Guild wouldn’t mix. But I appreciate the assistance.”

            “None of us want the world to end, lass. Ulfric to choke on a fishbone, aye, but not the world to end.”

            “I had a feeling you were from the Reach. Kynareth with you.”

            The Ratway was well named, replete with skeevers and lowlifes. Just past the Ragged Flagon where Vekel pointed her in the direction of the maze-like Warrens for a handful of septims, Thalmor lurked, muttering complaints about being there. Before she could move, a hand placed itself over her mouth.

            “Etienne sent us a pigeon from Windhelm,” the snake-oil salesman from the marketplace whispered into her ear. “It seems we might owe you a small favour, lass.”

            “Your generosity is beyond words,” she shot back once he removed his hand.

            “That’s what my friends tell me.” He grinned at her and she sniffed.

            Still, with him and a tall burly Nord to engage the guards, the Thalmor mage was a lot easier to deal with. They found Esbern’s chamber, hidden behind a door that would have done the Imperial Treasury proud. “Go away!” he yelled. “I’m just an old man!”

            “It’s Aurelia Callaina,” was her reply. “The dragons are back, there are two Dragonborn, and your oath is called, Blade. Now open the bloody door!”

            A slot opened. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

            “Because I just helped kill three Thalmor, lad,” the snake-oil salesman said pleasantly. “She Shouted one arse over head.”

            “Did Wulfgar teach you the Voice?” Esbern’s eyes had found hers.

            “Technically, yes. Now open the damn door before more Thalmor arrive. I killed most of the Embassy and those that are left are probably pissed.”

            He opened the door eventually. “By the Nine,” the old man breathed. “It _is_ you. Come in, come in.”

            The next few minutes were spent gathering books and notes. The auburn-haired Thief and his burly friend stood guard at the door. “Why would Akatosh choose two Dragonborn?” Esbern asked.

            “Damned if I know. Mother’s still twitching about it. Her two least favourite children are now the heroes of prophecy.” Callaina couldn’t help but grin.

            Esbern smiled thinly. “I see.”

            Three more Thalmor arrived as they were leaving. “Capture them!” snapped the spotty-faced Altmer at the front.

            “FUS RO!” Callaina’s Shout struck him, driving his head into the nearest brick wall where it cracked.

            “Nurancar!” yelled one of the Altmer.

            Esbern, grinning tightly, summoned an Atronach. It went downhill from there for the Thalmor.

            When they returned to the Ragged Flagon, the snake-oil salesman was grinning. “If you ever want work, lass, you should join us.”

            “I’ll politely decline. Once Etienne’s healed, I’ll send him back to you if he wants to return.”

            “Suit yourself, lass.”

…

Balgruuf’s axe was the first of three to arrive. The others belonged to Idgrod of Hjaalmarch and Igmund of the Reach. “To the High King that would be,” was the gist of the messages that accompanied them. Bjarni didn’t know what to do despite his sister’s blunt words. He didn’t want to displace his father.

            But he led Stormcloak troops into Whiterun and directed more to go to the Reach and Hjaalmarch. Balgruuf met him at the gate, expression grim. “Someone wants to speak to you,” he said.

            That ‘someone’ was Quaestor Hadvar of the Legion. “Where’s your sister?” he demanded.

            “She’s rescuing a Blades loremaster. What do you want, Hadvar?” Bjarni handed his helmet to Ralof, who had appointed himself warleader of the band.

            “To offer my allegiance to the rightful Empress of Tamriel. There are other Legionnaires who feel the same way.”

            “We have to worry about the dragons first,” Bjarni pointed out. “Besides, I’m not sure Callaina wants the job.”

            “She may not have a choice. The Dark Brotherhood are already moving.” His expression was flat. “Mede’s bastard Maro went and killed the Redguard Ambassador in an unprovoked attack. The Mede dynasty has officially made enemies of the Redguards.”

            “May all of my enemies be so stupid,” Bjarni said cheerfully. “When I see my sister, I’ll tell her what you said. But in the end, it’s up to her.”

            Hadvar scowled. “Callaina must become Empress! When Mede dies, there will be chaos otherwise, and the Thalmor will take advantage.”

            “Get the Legion out of Skyrim and you’ll have all the troops you need to quell unrest in Cyrodiil,” Bjarni suggested.

            “Dammit, you little shit-“

            “You speak to the next High King of Skyrim!” Balgruuf snapped. “That much Idgrod has seen.”

            Bjarni decided he liked Balgruuf, even if the idea that it would be him and not Ulfric who the Moot would choose bothered him.

            “Fine.” Hadvar saluted. “But Callaina must consider my words. Tamriel could fall otherwise.”


	20. Kindred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Esbern! It _is_ you.”

            Callaina folded her arms as Delphine and Esbern hugged. She didn’t even know the two had been close, let alone friends. Admittedly, her memories of Cloud Ruler Temple were jumbled and confused, with little sense of timeline or coherency. But she would have remembered her father’s mistress and her childhood tutor being friends, right?

            “Is it safe here?” Esbern asked. “Thalmor tried to hunt us down in Riften.”

            “There are no Thalmor here,” Delphine said quietly. “The Stormcloaks have taken over Whiterun. Three Jarls, including Balgruuf, sent their axes to Bjarni Ulfricsson. For whatever reason, Akatosh has given us two Dragonborn.”

            “Two?” Esbern blurted. “You’re certain?”

            “Sigdrifa managed to whelp a pair of them,” Delphine said dryly.

            “There are two,” Callaina confirmed. “I’m one, my little brother Bjarni’s the other.”

            “You said Wulfgar taught you the Voice!” Esbern said.

            “I didn’t lie. He survived Cloud Ruler and made it to High Hrothgar.” Callaina smiled wryly. “If you really want to learn Dovahzul though, talk to Bjarni. He once told a dragon to go fornicate with three draugr and a cactus from the Alik’r Desert in positions that were biologically impossible.”

            “Sounds like my kind of Dragonborn,” said a rich amused tenor from the doorway. An athletic man, blue-eyed and crowned with a mane of fine iron-grey braids, entered the inn with a bladed spear resting across his shoulders.

            “I’m little surprised you haven’t tried to find a dragon to do it with,” Delphine said snippily.

            “I pride myself on my flexibility, Delphine, but some things are beyond my capacity.” Rustem Aurelius rested his spear against the wall before coming over and looking long at Callaina. “Cirroc’s in Windhelm. Hammerfell won’t be _officially_ interfering in the Skyrim civil war, but if our resident Ansei feels he must avenge his grandfather on the Imperials, he’s in the right place to do it.”

            “Of course he is,” Callaina said with remarkable calm. “I imagine he gets on better with Mother than you ever did.”

            “They’re a lot alike,” Rustem admitted without shame. “So, you and your other little brother Dragonborn?”

            “Yes,” she said. “Is there a reason you’re here or have you come to cause trouble?”

            “Delphine, we need to talk privately,” Rustem said. “I might have something you’ll want to be a part of.”

            Delphine nodded towards her room. “I have somewhere downstairs.”

            “Callaina…” Rustem paused and sighed. “You’re angry, I get it. But Sigdrifa’s uncle told me you were dead. We had no reason to suspect you survived Cloud Ruler.”

            “You never looked,” she said. “Quaestor in the Anvil Third, Journeyman in the Synod. You could have found me if you really wanted to.”

            His mouth tightened. “Maybe.”

            Then he was following Delphine downstairs.

            Esbern sighed. “I won’t tell you to forgive them, Callaina, or to forget what’s happened. I won’t even blather some rubbish about you being the product of a grand destiny.”

            “I’m glad,” Callaina said with a sigh. “Esbern, you only had to hide from the Thalmor. I had nowhere to run or hide and the Emperor only had me to punish.”

            “Oh dear,” the mage sighed. “What will you do as Dragonborn?”

            “Kick Alduin’s scaly ass, retire to Whiterun and to hell with anyone else. Let Bjarni have the joy of politics.”

…

“You’re shitting me.”

            “Delphine, I shit you not.” Rustem’s blue eyes sparkled in the old familiar way. “You don’t want in, I respect that-“

            “Of course I want in,” she interrupted. “But… how are you going to lure that bastard up to Skyrim?”

            His smile was broad. “One of my brethren is attending his cousin’s wedding.”

…

“Of everyone in the room, you are the one who isn’t surprised,” Sigdrifa stated, staring Rustem’s son Cirroc in the eye. They had just received word from Solitude of Vittoria Vicci’s wedding and subsequent murder at the ceremony. Someone had fired an elven arrow right between her eyes. Sigdrifa could respect the sentiment even as she deplored the potential downfalls of the situation.

            “You know my father’s allegiances,” the Sword-Saint said calmly. “For once, Stormsword, your goals and his align. He once said you were the best tactician and strategist he ever knew. Use that mind of yours to chart the logical conclusion of Vittoria’s death.”

            Rustem had paid her a compliment? Sigdrifa didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled. So she walked around the map-table as Ulfric and Galmar exchanged glances. Egil was seated in the corner, holding a flagon of mountain petal tea. He was still on healing foods after his ordeal at the hands of the Thalmor.

            “Given that three of the four Imperial Jarls have defected to our side, Titus Mede will have no choice but come to Skyrim personally,” her younger son said calmly. “Forgive me, Sword-Saint, but how can you live with the fact your father is a Dark Brother?”

            “In the most technical sense, he isn’t,” Cirroc said. “He’s a Son of Satakal. But the order’s essentially been an arm of the Dark Brotherhood for several centuries because some of its leaders believed Satakal to be Sithis by another name.”

            “What do you believe?” Egil asked.

            “I think the Hunger of the World is more likely to be akin to your Alduin than Sithis,” was Cirroc’s answer. “For they are the death and rebirth of worlds.”

            “For someone who’s focusing on the dragons, Callaina is taking her sweet time getting around to dealing with Alduin,” observed Galmar testily.

            “If she managed to rescue this Esbern, they’re likely going to the Reach and Sky Haven Temple,” Cirroc said. “Father once said everything the Akaviri knew of dragons was in that place.”

            “From the reports from Riften, she was successful,” Ulfric rumbled. “But the Reach is a dangerous place for a Nord, even the Dragonborn. We should double our troop numbers there… to secure it for her safety, of course.”

…

“Of all the brazen cheek, you’ve surely shown the greatest, Nord. What brings you to Cidhna Mine?”

            Even in the burlap rags of a prisoner, the woman facing Madanach was a beautiful one, olive-bronze skin and long black hair softening the Nordic planes of her sculpted face. His agents had reported the magicka radiating from her and the strange red-green flash of her pupils like a sabre cat’s. Madanach could confirm that for himself but what none had warned him about was the sheer _weight_ of the gods’ favour hanging over her. Kyne was there as was Akatosh, even a trace of the bloody Thief-God Talos Himself and something in her blood that could be from Sheogorath. Probably the Madgoddess’ aspect; she was supposed to have been with Martin Septim.

            “I’m one of the Dragonborn, I need access to the Akaviri Temple on the Karthspire, and the Forsworn there aren’t talking,” was her calm reply. “I’d also appreciate your people to stop trying to assassinate Esbern. Yes, I know he’s a Silver-Blood, but he’s a Blade and an expert on dragonlore.”

            “…So you injured a bunch of Forsworn to get my attention?”

            “I might add that Ildene raised the corpse of Beitild Silver-Blood and Uaile nearly stabbed me in the back,” the Dragonborn said sardonically. “I only used a paralysis poison on them.”

            Madanach coughed. “Well, if I’d known you were such an _illustrious_ personage, I’d have arranged a more… hospitable greeting.”

            “She said she was one of two Dragonborn,” remarked Uraccen, one of his most loyal seconds, from the corner. “Who’s the other?”

            “Bjarni Ulfricsson. A young man who’s butted heads with his parents more than once, in particular over the treatment of Dunmer and Reachfolk,” the Dragonborn supplied. “Neither he nor I are the conquering type, Madanach.”

            “We have a dossier on Bjarni,” Uraccen admitted. “Nepos even said he might be willing to live and let live should the Stormcloaks conquer Skyrim. Very big on freedom of religion, young Bjarni.”

            The Dragonborn’s mouth quirked. “Anything on Aurelia Callaina?”

            Uraccen smirked. “Granddaughter of a prominent southern Matriarch who is part of the Cyrod Synod. Do not approach as probably a Legion loyalist, out of fear if not love of the Empire.”

            Madanach stared more closely at the Dragonborn. Catriona had been an austere woman before her ascension to Matriarch and even now was tall and spare. This one was shorter, darker and rounder, but the square jaw was much the same, as was the shape of her thick arching eyebrows.

            “Your grandmother’s a Hagraven,” he said casually.

            “Why not? I mean, my father’s a Dark Brother, my mother left me for dead, my uncle kills things for Arkay and my paternal half-brother is a Sword-Saint of Hammerfell. A Hagraven is almost normal compared to all of that,” was her dry reply.

            Uraccen grinned. “For a Nord, you have a great sense of humour.”

            “For someone whose daughter tried to kill me, you’re well-informed,” Callaina said dryly.

            Madanach steepled his fingers. “I intend to leave this city tonight. Once I rejoin with my people, nowhere will be safe for any toady of Ulfric’s or Tullius’. What do you have to say to that, Dragonborn?”

            “Leave me and Bjarni alone until Alduin is defeated,” she said simply. “Alduin wants to end the world, including the Reach.”

            “The World-Eater wakes?” Madanach asked, blanching.

            “I just said that. He’s made a good stab at trying to kill me and Bjarni a few times. The knowledge to defeat him is probably in Sky Haven Temple.” For the first time, the Dragonborn bit her lip, looking worried. “I won’t intervene in your escape, Madanach. Hell, I can’t even fault you for fighting the Stormcloaks, and I have kin among them.”

            “You have kin among us too,” Madanach told her. “What would it take to get you to use that magical Voice of yours to throw out everyone? We’ll even declare peace with Bjarni so long as he stays out of the Reach.”

            “’Speak only in true need’,” she said softly. “Madanach, I have only used the Voice once in anger, and I regret it. They call me Voice-of-Kyne, you know that? Bjarni’s the one who knows the war Shouts.”

            The King in Rags nodded and sighed. “I understand. I guess you’re something like a Matriarch. Look… we won’t hinder you if you don’t hinder us. Understand?”

            She nodded. “Yes.”

            Madanach rose to his feet. “Then there’s no time like now.”


	21. Forsworn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence, suicide, fantastic racism, genocide, the forced removal of children, child abandonment and child abuse.

 

“Alduin’s Wall. The collection of everything the Akaviri knew about dragons, the prophecy and the defeat of Alduin.”

            Callaina ran her fingers over the fine carving. “Those lines from the mouths of the Three Tongues – that’d be a Shout, right?”

            “Correct.” Esbern gave her an approving glance. “I wasn’t aware you were so familiar with Second Era Akaviri.”

            “Esbern, I trained with the Synod. Deciphering magical ciphers is a major component of Journeyman training – and this is as much cipher as it is metaphorical.” She followed the wall to its end. “I’m not seeing a whole lot of help from the Akaviri in this panel. They’re all kneeling.”

            “Of course. Their job was to preserve the knowledge. Yours and Bjarni’s is to finish Alduin,” Esbern said. “Assuming you can, of course.”

            “You’re just a wagonful of sunshine and hope today,” Callaina said sardonically.

            “Prophecy isn’t certainty, Callaina. I have nightmares about the dragons every night since I realised what the fall of the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil meant.” Esbern turned back to the panel involving the Shout. “Sadly, beyond ‘Shout’, I see no clues as to how the Three Tongues defeated Alduin.”

            “The Greybeards will know. Me and Bjarni have to take the horn of Jurgen Windcaller back to them anyway.” Callaina sighed and rubbed some dust from her nose. “You might as well come with me. Make rubbings of the Wall. I’m not sure the Forsworn will let us return.”

            “I can’t believe Madanach got loose! I can’t believe they didn’t execute him!” Esbern went to get some charcoal and paper to try and make some rubbings of the Wall they could take with them.

            “The Forsworn have as much right to freedom of worship as the Stormcloaks,” Callaina pointed out.

            “They’re heathens!”

            “And to them, so are we.” Callaina shook her head. “I’ll be down in the camp with the arms and armour. I don’t want to presume on the Forsworn’s hospitality more than I am.”

            Esbern grumbled but said nothing more. Thank Kynareth.

            In the camp, the daily life of the Forsworn was going on. Aside from the goat’s heads, spriggan hearts and Daedric totems, it didn’t look so different to Bruma. Children ran around playing or doing chores, hunters brought in and butchered meat, and there was even a woman tanning hides in the far corner. Two Hagravens, one of them a tall, spare and Nord-looking, were conversing over a table of alchemical ingredients not best considered just after breakfast. Callaina took a deep breath, nodded to the Briarheart standing guard near the cave entrance, and walked over to them.

            “That was quick,” remarked Kaleen, Matriarch of the Karthspire camp.

            “Esbern’s just finishing up collecting rubbings and copies of the Wall for Bjarni,” Callaina answered. “I think we might be pushing things a bit if we brought Bjarni Ulfricsson here.”

            “Probably,” agreed Kaleen. “Did the Wall have the key to defeating Alduin?”

            “It gave me a clue. I’ll need to speak to the Greybeards next.” Callaina set the handcart of Akaviri arms and armour down. “I can’t say that I won’t return to the Temple. It was built for the Dragonborn, you know.”

            “You’re welcome enough. You have the blood, the power and the god’s touch.” Kaleen nodded to her fellow Hagraven. “This is Catriona, Matriarch of the Glenmoril Coven and born of Lost Valley Clan.”

            If someone had given Sigdrifa beady eyes, feathers sprouting at random places, and unnaturally bent limbs, it would be a close resemblance to Catriona. But there was a strange kindness in her dark eyes and her thin lips were spread into a smile.

            “Granddaughter,” she said in a raspy alto.

            “Hi,” Callaina said awkwardly. The Daedric energies pouring off Catriona felt _wrong_ to her dragon soul. But there was no cruelty or malice in the Hagraven’s expression. “Uh…”

            Catriona gestured and became a grandmotherly Nord woman with silver-streaked black hair and wise dark eyes, the Daedric sense of wrongness vanishing. “Lowlanders find the Matriarchs confronting, I know,” she said. “Doubly so if they’re touched by the Aedra. You belong to Kyne, right?”

            “Yes,” Callaina said, breathing more easily. “They call me ‘Voice-of-Kyne’ down there.”

            “Matriarchs of the Right-Hand Gods are rare these days among the Reachfolk,” Catriona said with a sigh. “The Left-Hand Gods, for all their flaws, offer power that is obtainable and available _now_. With Igmund and the damned Silver-Bloods running around, we need every advantage we can get.”

            Callaina echoed her sigh. “Igmund, Idgrod and Balgruuf sent their axes to Ulfric. That means they joined the Stormcloaks, or so I understand it.”

            Kaleen shook her head. “No, Idgrod and Balgruuf sent their axes to the High King that would be. The Ravencrones of Morthal are kin to the Reachfolk. Idgrod’s own grandmother became a Hagraven. Unfortunately, Sigdrifa killed her in the Stormcloaks’ invasion of the Reach.”

            “I’m sorry.” Callaina spread her hands. “Bjarni would probably champion your right to worship as you see fit within reason. No human sacrifice, that kind of thing.”

            “We’ve sent an agent to ascertain where he stands on the Reach,” Kaleen said bluntly. “What about you?”

            “I won’t help you throw out the Silver-Bloods but I won’t hinder you either,” Callaina admitted. “My concern is the dragons and then settling down in Jorrvaskr.”

            “Fancy one of the werewolves, do you?” Catriona asked with a raised eyebrow. “Which one is it – Farkas or Vilkas?”

            “Farkas! Wait, _what?_ ”

            “The Circle are werewolves. It was actually one of our ancestors who made the original bargain with Terrfyg,” Catriona told her. “They have full control of their lupine abilities, protect Skyrim and are unstoppable in combat. In return, they hunt for Hircine in this life and the next.”

            Callaina closed her eyes. “Sure. Of course. Two of my family belong to the Daedra. Why not a man I fancy too?”

            “Hircine is a fair god,” Catriona said. “He even works with Kyne on certain mutual interests.”

            “I’m just…” Callaina waved her hand.

            “You were raised in the lowlands. Given Dengeir’s attitude towards the old gods and magic, I’m surprised you turned out fairly stable.”

            “I was actually abandoned by Mother because she thought I was dead,” Callaina said, opening her eyes. “The Empire, the same one that my grandfather Arius betrayed, had the raising of me.”

            Before either Hagraven could say anything, Esbern arrived with a pack full of books and parchments. “It’s done,” he said. “The Temple is sealed up. Where do we go now?”

            “To Old Hroldan and then Whiterun,” Callaina said softly. “We’ll need to make haste because once we’re formally greeted by the Greybeards… All bets are off. Everyone in Skyrim and beyond will know the Dragonborn have arisen once more.”

…

“Jarl Bjarni?”

            “I’m no Jarl,” Bjarni said automatically as the slim little Breton, quietly pretty like a sparrow, addressed him. She wore a homespun dress not unlike that of any Nord churl, but he didn’t know any Breton who’d wear a delicate streak of tattooed ink across her nose and cheekbones. There was something familiar about her, though he couldn’t place it.

            “I’m sorry,” she said diffidently. “I don’t know if you’d remember me, but my name is Muiri. We met a couple times in Windhelm.”

            “Didn’t you let a thief into the Shatter-Shields’ house so he could take off with their valuables?” Ralof asked with a frown.

            “I didn’t know he was a bandit!” Muiri snapped. “He was so kind to me after Friga’s death and…”

            “I remember you now,” Bjarni said slowly. “You were one of the… Reach children. From my father’s… actions in the Reach.”

            “Yes. I was one of the lucky ones. My cousin Bryn was sent to Honorhall Orphanage.” Her lips twisted bitterly.

            “I’m sorry,” Bjarni said awkwardly.

            “Sorry doesn’t change the past.” Muiri took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You’re a decent man, Bjarni. Even you are, Ralof. Succinctly, I fell in love with a charming man named Alain Dufont after Friga Shatter-Shield died, and he used that to steal my key and then steal Aegisbane and most of their gold. Instead of believing me, it was easier for the Stormcloaks to blame the filthy Reachwoman and throw her out on her ear.”

            Bjarni sighed heavily. “They were punished by the gods. Nilsine caught a fever shortly after and Tova… Well.”

            “Yes, I know,” she said simply.

            For the sake of avoiding a fight, Bjarni wasn’t going to probe too deeply into that statement. Sigdrifa wasn’t the only person who hired the Dark Brotherhood. “Why are you in Whiterun?” he asked.

            “I was sent by the Hag of my clan,” the Reachwoman said. “Your sister and the last of the Silver-Bloods was permitted access to the Akaviri Temple at the top of Karthspire. She said you weren’t like your father and the clans of the Reach want to know where you stand in regards to us.”

            Bjarni winced. “I have no quarrel with you,” he admitted. “I believe everyone has the right to worship freely so long as there’s no illegal activity going on. But Igmund has given the Stormcloaks his allegiance… and to be honest, we need the silver mines, so losing the Reach isn’t an option.”

            “You’re honest, at least,” Muiri said dryly. “What about reparations to the Forsworn for Markarth, Karthwasten and all the children taken?”

            “You killed Jarl Hrolfdir!” Ralof burst out.

            “He let the Silver-Bloods execute Reachfolk and take their land!” Muiri snapped back. “He let Sigdrifa and Ulfric kill most of our holy folk, imprison our King and take the children away in an attempt to destroy our culture. Simply because we were doing then what you Stormcloaks are doing now – rebelling against a corrupt Empire!”

            Ralof’s mouth snapped shut and even Bjarni was taken aback. He’d known, in general, that the Reach conflict hadn’t been a good thing and that his parents had done terrible things during it. But to see parallels between them and what the Empire and their Dominion overlords were doing to Skyrim…

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered aloud. “If I ever become Jarl, I… will see what can be done.”

            “We’ll see,” Muiri said quietly. “But until then, if Stormcloak troops cross into the Reach and attack Forsworn, they will die.”

            Bjarni nodded mutely. What else could he do?


	22. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Because I’m coming up to the start of university in Australia, my posting will decrease significantly. Season Unending will be a little different because, well, I treat NPCs like they’re competent human beings.

 

Callaina spread out the charcoal rubbings of Alduin’s Wall on the floor of Balgruuf’s Great Hall, using small pebbles to keep the pieces of paper flat. Much of her softness had been burned away, leaving only lean muscle and bone, and the resemblance to Sigdrifa was only more pronounced. But in the aquiline profile of her face and the tight mouth, Delphine saw echoes of Arius and the portrait of Julius Martin, the last great Grandmaster of the Blades. No doubt others saw Martin Septim. Aurelia Callaina Septima, the last of the Septims.

            “We’re entering the endgame,” the mage said as Bjarni knelt beside her. “Balgruuf, we’re going to need the dragon-trap once we return from High Hrothgar. The records at Sky Haven Temple indicate that the Three Tongues had derived some kind of Shout that grounded Alduin. If anyone will know of it, or how to find it, it will be the Greybeards. Dragonsreach will be the perfect place to trap the World-Eater.”

            “You’re putting my city at risk,” Balgruuf pointed out.

            “If you have any other way to trap the World-Eater, I’d love to hear it,” Callaina said with some asperity. “We can evacuate Whiterun. There’s enough bandit camps in the plains to hold them all.”

            “True enough.” Balgruuf sighed heavily. “Better one city than all of Skyrim.”

            “If Whiterun is destroyed, I’ll lay the foundation stones for a grander city myself,” Bjarni promised. “We have the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, knowledge of the Shout to defeat Alduin, and most of Skyrim sworn to the Stormcloaks. As Callaina says, we have truly entered the endgame.”

            The son of Ulfric rose to his feet. “We will hold what we have claimed. Alduin is the more pressing issue, and I’d rather not fight a war on two fronts, so for now I want all troops to _not_ cross into the Reach. Callaina tells me the Forsworn will stay on their side if we stay on ours.”

            “Ulfric commanded that we send double troops into the Reach,” Galmar, recently come from Windhelm, pointed out.

            “That was to secure a path for me and Callaina to Sky Haven Temple,” Bjarni pointed out. “Callaina went in on her own and has managed to reach something of an accord with the Reachfolk. Who knows, maybe it will grow into peace. But any Stormcloak who crosses into the Reach without my permission will be lucky if the Forsworn are the ones who find them. Understood?”

            Delphine caught Galmar’s eye and shook her head subtly when he looked ready to protest. Some things weren’t worth the battle.

            “Fine,” Galmar grated. “Your parents won’t be pleased.”

            “Given they attempted genocide on the Forsworn while fighting against the Aldmeri Dominion doing the same to Nords, I don’t think they can throw rocks at us,” Bjarni said grimly. “We cannot demand honour from others without giving it to them in return.”

            The next day, the Dragonborn rode out with Lydia, Esbern and the Companion Farkas in tow for High Hrothgar. Delphine was seething at being left behind until Ralof pointed out she’d technically desecrated a Greybeards’ holy site. That just made her angry. So she rode back to Riverwood for a few hours to clear her head and see how Orgnar was going with the inn.

            Finding Rustem there, charming Camilla Valeria with a smile, was almost enough to send her into a fury. But the Redguard promised vengeance and Delphine dearly wanted to destroy the Empire for what they did to the Blades. So she throttled back her temper and greeted him with a smile.

            In her secret cellar, Rustem didn’t mince words. “Titus Mede is coming to Skyrim,” he said. “We’ve got the old bastard’s cousin and grandson. None of us have found Akaviria Medea yet, but I’m sure she’s tucked away nice and safely somewhere in High Rock. Maro the Elder’s getting paranoid. I intend to push him over the edge before I’m done. Beroc was a good man who deserved a better end.”

            Delphine nodded. “Any word on Irkand?”

            “Irkand? Nothing. Last I heard he was executing necromancers for Arkay or something.” Rustem folded his arms. “You don’t think…?”

            “Irkand’s always been an Imperial loyalist. I’ve heard repeated rumours that he even stood in for Titus Mede during the Battle of the Red Ring, wielding Goldbrand after he sacrificed Tyr to get it.”

            Rustem’s expression darkened. “If he gets in my way, he dies.”

            Delphine nodded. “Good. Tyr was a good man who deserved better.”

            Rustem nodded in agreement. “He was one of the best.”

            He leaned over her dragon burial map of Skyrim. “So, I suspect that Mede’ll use one of his relatives as a body double for public appearances…”

…

_A Day Earlier…_

Elisif twitched the hood of her cloak a little lower, trying to cover most of her face in shadow, as they moved through the crowds in Whiterun. The ride from Solitude had been hard, long and fast, Bolgeir and Falk spending gold like water, and her legs were still raw and hurting. She wanted a salve for them and some rest but that wasn’t possible. The word from Whiterun, from Windhelm, even from Castle Dour painted a bleak future for her as Jarl unless she could secure a place in the new order of things.

            Dragonsreach was as impressive as stories painted it. Elisif had never left Solitude since coming to Skyrim and her visit to Markarth had been brief, passing through as she was on the way to her wedding. She wondered briefly whether Torygg had ever been here, quashing the stab of sorrow at the thought reflexively. He was dead and she was alive, ruling a city that had no love for her in a land where dragons flew and the rebellion had more than one Ulfric at their side. She stifled a sob at watching Torygg be Shouted at and be cut down by Ulfric’s axe. He’d died with a butter knife in his hand because he knew Ulfric was really murdering him.

            Inside, a group of people clustered around a large set of papers laid out, obviously rubbings of some intricate carved frieze. One of them was a big shaggy-haired Nord clad in the wolf-emblazoned plate of a Companion, who nudged the side of a compact brunette with olive-bronze skin and an aquiline profile. “We got company.”

            The woman raised her eyes, the pupils flashing red-green in the firelight. “Can we help you?” she asked in the brisk accents of an educated Colovian noblewoman.

            Elisif lowered her hood. “I don’t know, Stormcloak. Can you?”

            “I’m not a Stormcloak,” the woman said calmly as next to her, Bjarni Ulfricsson rose to his feet. He had the Stormsword’s colouring and Ulfric’s rugged looks, with a bulk to rival Quaestor Hadvar. His eyes flashed red-green too and Elisif saw the resemblance between the two.

            “Elisif,” greeted Bjarni.

            “Elisif?” the woman asked.

            “Jarl of Solitude.” That was Balgruuf, who rose to his feet and dusted off his pants. “Torygg’s widow and the Imperial claimant to the High King’s throne.”

            Elisif chuckled bitterly. “Not now. Why did you send Ulfric your axe, Balgruuf?”

            Balgruuf nodded to Bjarni. “Because of the High King that will be. He’s the first Dragonborn since Talos and if you think the Aldmeri Dominion will leave him in peace…”

            “After what Aurelia Callaina did at the Embassy, can you blame them?” Elisif asked.

            “After what Elenwen did to my grandfather, half-brother and most of the people I knew in my childhood, can you blame me?” asked the woman. “I lived through the siege of Cloud Ruler Temple and the three purges of Bruma. I’m not saying that Arius wasn’t a traitor, but no one deserved what Titus Mede allowed to happen. And I had to watch most of it.”

            “Ulfric will not have the High King’s crown, no matter what he may wish,” Balgruuf said calmly. “When Alduin is dead, we will crown Bjarni High King.”

            “Just don’t get any ideas about making me the next Septim Empress,” Callaina said dryly. “I’m not rulership material.”

            “I’m sorry for what happened to your husband,” Bjarni said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But what do you want from us, Elisif? Is this a surrender or…?”

            “I never asked to rule Haafingar, but rule I must,” Elisif told him. “What are your plans for me, oh mighty conqueror of Skyrim and Dragonborn lord of all?”

            Judging by Bjarni’s blank face, he hadn’t thought that far. Callaina exchanged a glance with the Companion and shook her head. Everyone else, including Balgruuf and Galmar, looked nonplussed.

            “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Callaina and I have a little thing called Alduin on our plate before we even think of completing the unification of Skyrim.”

            “Alduin?” Elisif asked.

            “The World-Eater.” That was Callaina as she chivvied everyone away from the charcoal rubbings. “This is Alduin’s Wall, the Akaviri depiction of the Dragon War, the Three Tongues Revolt and the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn. We’ve figured out there’s a Shout that was used to defeat Alduin. We’re hoping the Greybeards know.”

            Despite herself, Elisif leaned over the rubbings, fascinated. The dragon that dominated most of the panel was big and spiky, malevolence in his eyes. She moved along the panel, peering at everything, and reached the final scene where warriors knelt as a big man – Nord from the looks of him – battled the dragon. At his feet was a prone robed woman. She opened her mouth to say something but Callaina grasped her wrist, shaking her head subtly.

            There were two Dragonborn – the male to fight and the female to… die? Elisif wasn’t sure. She’d seen Akaviri carvings in Cyrodiil but nothing of this quality and judging by Callaina’s expression, no one else had noticed or knew.

            “So what, you’re going to rebuild Talos’ Empire?” Elisif finally asked as Callaina released her wrist.

            “No. I think a coalition of allied nations will fare better against the Dominion when the time comes,” Bjarni rumbled. “But Elisif, believe me when I say the time of the Mede Empire in Skyrim is over. You want to go back to Cyrodiil, we’ll send you there with an escort to the border. You are a puppet in the greater scheme of things.”

            “I’m the daughter of the Count of Evermore,” Elisif told him. “Who will you make Jarl in my place, hmm? Erikur? He’d sell his mother to Molag Bal for a septim. Bryling? A good woman, but she thinks only of tradition. Egil? The people would revolt in a month because he’s so dour and self-righteous. Sigdrifa? Ha!”

            “If you swear allegiance to the Stormcloaks, you may keep the Wolf Throne,” Galmar rumbled. “As for the rest of it, we shall see at the Moot.”

            _Yes, we shall,_ Elisif thought as she opened her mouth to make a response. _We shall indeed._


	23. Alduin's Bane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Yes, this version of Arngeir is extra salty. Yes, Callaina may speak more languages, but Bjarni is a genius when it comes to pattern recognition.

 

“You can say a lot about Elisif the Fair, but you can’t deny she genuinely wants to do the best she can by Solitude,” Callaina remarked as they climbed the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar.

            “I noticed.” Bjarni heaved a heavy sigh. “It’s standard Norse diplomacy if a Jarl takes over another Hold.”

            “Don’t count your chickens until your eggs hatch,” Callaina warned. “We got Alduin and Tullius fights best when he’s backed against a corner.”

            They entered High Hrothgar. Arngeir was kneeling in the middle of the Great Hall, meditating or something. His eyes opened and even from here, the iciness was apparent. “You deign to return,” the old man said testily, rising to his feet. “I thought you were too busy making yourselves rulers of Skyrim.”

            “We retrieved the damn horn,” Bjarni said flatly. “Callaina also found Alduin’s Wall.”

            “Dragonrend.” Arngeir’s mouth tightened. “A foul Shout, born of hatred and despair.”

            “It isn’t what you say, it’s how you say it,” Callaina said softly. “Mother liked to say that when I was a child.”

            Bjarni rolled his eyes. “Me too.”

            Callaina gave him a quick sympathetic smile as Arngeir looked at them sternly. “Dragonrend was born of the hatred the Three Tongues had for dragons. When you master a Word, you internalise it. Dragonborn have enough difficulties without taking on such hatred and rage in their souls.”

            “What Word did you internalise to become such a prick?” Callaina snapped. “You were Grandmaster once. We need this Word to bring Alduin down. Do you want this world to be saved or what?”

            “Perhaps it is time for the next kalpa,” Arngeir said gravely. “Even if I knew this Word, I would not teach you.”

            It was then Bjarni discovered that Callaina could swear in more languages than he could. Loudly. Fluently. Referencing gods and monsters he’d never heard of. He was so proud of her.

            “-I do not have time for your bullshit!” she finished. “Where can I find the Words for Dragonrend?”

            “DOVAHKIINNE!” announced a rumbling Voice that overwhelmed all others.

            “Paarthurnax,” breathed Arngeir. “It cannot be.”

            “For some reason, I think he wants to talk to us,” Bjarni said with a smile. “So, where is he?”

            On top of the Throat of the World, of course. Callaina banished the icy winds with the Clear Skies Shout while Bjarni used Unrelenting Force to kill the ice wraiths. A grey dragon, old and battered, landed on the edge of a Word Wall as they reached the plateau.

“Drem Yol Lok,” Paarthurnax greeted. “It is tradition for the eldest to speak first.”

“Drem Yol Lok,” Callaina said.

“Drem Yol Lok,” Bjarni repeated.

“So, Koor-Lah-Noor and Bah-Ni have come to hold tinvaak with an old dovah,” Paarthurnax said with a twinkle in his eye. “You seek the Words for Dragonrend.”

“If you have another way to defeat Alduin, we’d love to hear it,” Bjarni said wryly.

“I do not. As your sister says, it is not what you say, but how you say it.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily. “I cannot teach you personally. The Shout… it touches on concepts of mortality that the dovahhe do not understand.”

“Shit,” Callaina muttered.

“Maybe not.” Bjarni chewed on his bottom lip. “I know Dovahzul.”

“Geh, we noticed,” Paarthurnax said dryly. “My mate Teyfunvahzah wants you to know that mated dragons are biologically incapable of those acts.”

Bjarni grinned at the dragon. “Invent a Shout.”

Paarthurnax actually snickered.

“So, mortality is at the heart of Dragonrend. Makes sense. Most dragons are immortal and practically invulnerable.” Bjarni began to pace around as Callaina exchanged looks with Paarthurnax. “That means Joor is one of the Words, maybe even the first. Hmm, what other words mean ending?”

“’Zah’ means ‘finite’,” Callaina said quietly. “That’s the heart of mortality – we have finite time on this world.”

“That makes sense.” Bjarni opened his mouth. “Joor Zah… Oblaan!”

Nothing happened. “Joor Zah Dinok!”

“Joor Zah Laat!”

Nope, nothing. Bjarni moved around restlessly, combining every Word for ending he could think of. Joor and Zah worked together, but it was the final Word that was proving elusive.

Paarthurnax rested his head on his claws. “Mortal life in Keizaal is temporary, Bah-Ni, but it never really ends.”

 _Of course!_ “JOOR ZAH FRUL!”

The Shout hit Paarthurnax and the dragon glowed purple. “Oh shit-“

“Drem,” the dragon said as the purple faded. “I have contemplated my existence for five thousand years. I accept my end.”

“Well for you that you do,” spoke a dark sepulchral voice from above, “For you and the Dovahkiinne will die this day-“

“JOOR ZAH FRUL!” From Callaina, the Shout was an acceptance of mortality and a remainder of life’s eternal cycle. It struck the hovering Alduin and forced him to the ground, buying Paarthurnax time to claw his way into the sky and another dragon, a small lithe creature with neck frills, to arrive out of nowhere.

Even with the Dragonrend Shout and two dragons, Alduin proved to be a tough enemy to fight. Bjarni’s axe just bounced off the black scales and even Callaina’s Ghostblade could only inflict scratches. But Alduin found he couldn’t focus on one target because the other three would attack while he was occupied.

Finally, the World-Eater rose above them all and prepared to stoop or Shout or _something._ Bjarni opened his mouth and just yelled in Dovahzul. Callaina blanched and Paarthurnax gaped. Alduin stopped flapping his wings for a critical moment, only to be struck from the sky by the little neck-frilled dragon who was probably Paarthurnax’s mate Teyfunvahzah.

Alduin crashed against the stone and rolled down the side of the Throat of the World. But by the time they reached the edge, he was rising, battered and bleeding.

“I will devour your souls in Sovngarde!” he roared before flying away.

“What did he mean by that?” Bjarni asked, panting.

Callaina glanced at him. “You didn’t know? Alduin feasts on the souls of the battle-dead in Sovngarde – or so I was told.”

“We need to stop him!”

“I know. But we need to find out how he gets to Sovngarde.” Her smile was bleak. “I somehow think a heroic death isn’t an option.”

“No, but trapping one of his lieutenants is.” Teyfunvahzah landed with a thud, briefly grooming his mate’s neck. “I think his chief lickspittle is Odahviing.”

Callaina’s smile turned bleaker. “Guess we’ll be using Balgruuf’s dragon trap sooner than we thought.”


	24. Dragonsreach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. If Bormahu means ‘our father’ in Dragonish and ‘Thur’ means ‘overlord’, I figure ‘Thuru’ means ‘our overlord’.”

 

“All saw Alduin fall and flee from High Hrothgar,” Balgruuf said gravely as the two Dragonborn approached the Stallion Throne. “Well done.”

            “We haven’t won yet,” Callaina Voice-of-Kyne said grimly. “We need the old dragon trap and help in capturing one of Alduin’s lieutenants.”

            Balgruuf blinked at her. “Why?”

            “Because Alduin World-Eater’s prey are the souls of heroes who have gone to Sovngarde and lay trapped in his mists,” Bjarni said as grimly as his sister. “Every minute we delay, more are devoured.”

            Balgruuf was out of his throne and snapping orders to Irileth and his guards within heartbeats. Too many Nords had died in the civil war and to now know they were a feast for Alduin… No true Nord could stand by and allow it to continue.

            While they brought down the trap and repaired it for use, Bjarni remained behind to discuss the upcoming Moot with Balgruuf and Callaina vanished to fetch the Companions from Jorrvaskr. They stood out on the great porch overlooking the plains of Whiterun and Balgruuf allowed himself a sideways glance at the High King-to-be. Ulfric’s elder son was calm and while the roguish glint in his eyes remained, maturity had settled on the boy like a good cloak.

            “Your parents owe wergild to Skyrim for their actions,” Balgruuf finally said. “They deliberately crippled trade, arranged the assassination of key figures in almost every Hold, undermined the authority of most of the Jarls, and murdered Torygg in an unfair fight. For that, neither of them will sit on the High King’s Throne.”

            “That was mostly my mother,” Bjarni finally said. “But you’re right. I don’t want to be High King – yet – but it’s conducive to making peace and preparing for the Dominion’s retaliation.”

            Balgruuf nodded. Thank the Nine that Talos had finally given them a High King who understood politics. “What of your sister? She has a claim to Falkreath.”

            “Callaina has a claim to the Ruby Throne, but she’s made it clear she doesn’t seek to rule. The Septim Empire is ended and the Mede one is dying.” Bjarni sighed. “She’s been acting strange since Elisif’s visit, and she won’t say why.”

            “She knows we’re in the endgame,” Balgruuf assured the younger man as he watched his guards oil the dragon trap. “She’s focusing all her attention to Alduin’s defeat.”

            “Maybe.”

…

If it wasn’t for his nose, Farkas wouldn’t have recognised the Callaina who approached him in the courtyard. Her long black hair had been cut to the chin and her patched foreign robes were now replaced with orange cotton ones that smelt of magic. “We saw the fight,” he told her with a grin. “But Alduin got away.”

            “Not for long,” she said quietly. “We’re going to trap his chief lieutenant, extract the location of a portal, and go to Sovngarde to finish it.”

            “Sovngarde?” Farkas asked.

            “Yes. Alduin devours the souls of heroes to regain power.” Callaina lifted her chin. “I don’t trust Balgruuf’s guards to hold in the face of a dragon they can’t kill. Are all the Companions available?”

            “Yeah.” He led her into the hall. “Kodlak died a couple weeks ago. We had to do stuff, but we’re done with mourning now.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” Callaina said softly.

            “Thanks.” Farkas heaved a sigh. “Been hoping you’d come around.”

            “I wanted to, but I had to go to the Reach and return to High Hrothgar to speak to Paarthurnax. The fight in Sovngarde will be the end of it for me.”

            He gave her a worried look. “What do you mean?”

            Callaina’s gaze became infinitely sad. “The Akaviri Dragonguard carved their knowledge of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn into something called Alduin’s Wall. They prophesised two Dragonborn all the while… and one of them will die. And it isn’t the man in armour.”

            Everyone thought Farkas was an idiot, but he wasn’t. He understood what she meant. “Oh.”

            “Yes. I… wanted someone else to know. Elisif figured it out, but she’s a sharp one. Bjarni… I love him very much but he will try to stop it and probably get himself killed. That would be bad for Skyrim and Tamriel, so I don’t want him to know.”

            “I understand.” And he did, dammit. “So, if you weren’t going to die, would you really have come to Jorrvaskr?”

            “Yes, for any number of reasons. You being the chief one.”

            Despite everything, Farkas found himself smiling. “I would have liked that.”

            “Me too.” Callaina took a deep shaky breath and released it slowly. “Let’s get everyone together.”

            Ria had just left Jorrvaskr the other day after achieving her place as full Companion, citing family problems in Cyrodiil, but everyone else remained. Vilkas, now Harbinger, listened to Callaina’s low explanation of why she was here and started bellowing for everyone to arm up. They were about to play their part in saving Skyrim.

            As one, once everyone was in place at Dragonsreach, Callaina and Bjarni Shouted “ODAHVIING!” to summon a big red dragon that had mean written all over him. Bjarni goaded the dragon forward until he was within the outline of pale stone tiles that marked where the best place to trap a dragon was, as the Companions harried his flanks to drive him in there. Callaina gestured with both hands and blue-greenish light locked the collar around his neck.

            “Your haste has cost you much,” Bjarni drawled after the dragon said some presumably bad words in Dragonish. “You should be glad we only want information from you, Odahviing, and not your soul.”

            “You seek Alduin’s portal to Sovngarde,” the dragon said shrewdly. “It is in Skuldafn, high in the mountains that you call Velothi.”

            “Alduin, not being an idiot, has made inaccessible by anyone other than those who can fly, hasn’t he?” Callaina asked.

            “Geh, Koor-Lah-Noor.” Odahviing sighed. “Since Thuru broke and fled from your combined Voices, there has been talk – quietly – among the dovahhe.”

            “I don’t actually want to kill dragons,” Bjarni told him. “I will be Junsebronne after the defeat of Alduin, for there are forces among the Krisfahliil who desire to unwind Bormahu and end time itself. Dragons would be a powerful force to set against them; if you are willing to foreswear harming humans unless permitted, we won’t have to kill you all.”

            “You must defeat Alduin to claim such authority among the dovahhe,” Odahviing said. “But… even we will be fodder for the World-Eater in the end. I swear by Bormahu that if I am released, I will carry you and Koor-Lah-Noor to Skuldafn. Do that and you will be recognised as Thursedovahhe by the survivors. But be wary, for Alduin will have gathered his remaining forces and Skuldafn was one of the old places of the Dragon Cult.”

            “Draugr and dragons,” Callaina said with studied dryness. “The story of my life since I came to Skyrim.”

            Bjarni studied Odahviing for a long moment before nodding. “Release him!”

            “Are you insane?” the guard demanded.

            “Do it,” Balgruuf ordered.

            “Alright, but you’re stuffing him back in there if things go wrong.” The guard yanked the lever and the collar dropped from Odahviing’s neck.

            Callaina shared a long glance with Farkas before she mounted Odahviing. He wanted to hate that dragon, but he knew that in the end, a Nord couldn’t fight fate. They were doing what the gods demanded of him.

            It didn’t stop the tears leaking from his eyes as Odahviing flew away with the two Dragonborn on his back.


	25. Sovngarde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. The penultimate chapter, folks! Please don’t hate me. Trigger warning for death, violence and grief.

 

Callaina snorted as Odahviing flew away. “It restores my faith in the universe that the dragons can be cowards.”

            “Heh.” Bjarni managed a weak chuckle. It was the moment of truth, dragons and draugr arrayed before them, and now he understood how someone could shit themselves in fear. “So, how do we handle this?”

            Callaina glanced upwards. “Stealth. I didn’t load up on powerful invisibility potions for nothing. Our goal is to reach the portal to Sovngarde, not waste our time with Alduin’s minions.”

            “Discretion being the better part of valour?” Bjarni asked. Then he nodded. “Let’s try stealth.”

            They made their way through most of the temple complex with minimal conflict and Bjarni learned the Word for a new Shout – Storm – along the way. It wasn’t until they reached the top of Skuldafn, where a Dragon Priest and two dragons hovered, that they realised they’d have to fight.

            “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” The Shout, delivered in unison, grounded the dragons and even as they landed Callaina was pulling out a scroll and striding towards the portal. She read it and a great lightning storm blew up with her at the centre, striking the dragons and priest with lightning as Bjarni waited for a full minute. Then he was on the dragons, striking with his axe, and Callaina’s Ghostblade did the rest.

            He immediately funnelled the dragon soul into Strun, the Word for Storm, and noticed that Callaina had stayed well away from the other dragon. “Come on,” he urged her. “This Storm Shout could be useful.”

            “It’s not for me to know,” was her reply. “Even one Word of Storm Call is dangerous.”

            Then the Dragon Priest rose from its huddle and Callaina started throwing fireballs at it. When it died, she took the priest’s staff and planted it into a strange hole. Immediately, the stone sank beneath their feet and before Bjarni could say something, they were… elsewhere.

            When his vision cleared, he saw the glory of the vale before the Hall of Valour. Then Alduin Shouted something dark in his sepulchral voice and choking mists shrouded the entire valley.

            “LOK VAH KOOR!” Callaina Shouted, clearing them for a time. Then she strode forward and Bjarni followed her.

            It wasn’t a direct route to the Whalebone Bridge. Callaina banished the mists every so often and found pockets of Nords – Legion, Stormcloak and others – hiding from the World-Eater’s hunger. “It’s time,” she said crisply. “Follow me to the Whalebone Bridge.”

            Kodlak Whitemane was there and High King Torygg too.

            “When Ulfric Stormcloak, with savage Shout, sent me here, my sole regret was fair Elisif, left forlorn and weeping. I faced him fearlessly - my fate inescapable, yet my honour is unstained - can Ulfric say the same?” Torygg’s gaze was accusing as he looked at Bjarni, the butter knife still in his hand.

            “I’m sorry,” Bjarni said softly. “It was an unfair battle.”

            “Murder it was, son of Ulfric,” Torygg said flatly. “What fate is planned for fair Elisif?”

            “When I defeat Alduin and return to Skyrim, High King will I be in place of my father,” Bjarni told him formally. “Elisif I will take to wife, uniting our claims in time-old tradition. It was she who came to me, for Solitude’s sake, to deny my father the High King’s Throne and bring the Dragonborn to royal estate.”

            “Tactful, Bjarni. _Really_ tactful,” Callaina muttered under her breath.

            “If Ulfric is denied the throne, content I am in the greater will of the gods,” Torygg said, glance sliding towards Callaina. “Never had I quarrel with you, son of Ulfric. Had Ulfric talked _to_ me, not at me as if foolish child, I would have stood with the Stormcloaks.”

            “I was told that by Elisif,” Bjarni said quietly.

            “Can we get going? I can’t banish these mists forever,” Callaina said tartly.

            “My sister, born of the Stormsword,” Bjarni said with a wry smile. “She is the Voice of Kyne, as I am the Voice of Talos, both Dragonborn.”

            “I feel like I’m in a bad epic poem here,” Callaina said with a roll of her eyes.

            They reached the Whalebone Bridge where Tsun waited.

            “What brings you, wayfarers grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” he asked gravely, eyes going towards the crowd.

            “Who in Oblivion are you?” Callaina asked. The wince from the gathered Nord dead was almost audible, but Tsun simply laughed in amusement.

            “I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honour.”

            “I see.” Callaina sighed. “Well, get to winnowing. We’re here to kick Alduin’s arse and I’d rather not see him snack on the souls of the dead, if you please.”

            “A fateful errand. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught - perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw.”

            Tsun removed his large axe. “Come then, heroic dead, test yourself against me and find yourself heart’s ease in the Hall of Valour!”

            Every one of the dead passed and crossed the Whalebone Bridge. Only Kodlak Whitemane, heartier and haler than Bjarni had ever known him, remained afterwards. “I will raise my sword against Alduin World-Eater,” the Harbinger said.

            “That is your choice, Harbinger, first of those to return to the true ways of war.” Tsun looked at Bjarni and Callaina. “What of you two?”

            “I seek entrance to the Hall of Valour,” Bjarni said, hardly believing his own daring.

            “I’m looking for Heaven’s Reach Temple,” Callaina said. “It’s time for the Dragonguard to fulfil their purpose and oath.”

            Tsun assumed an expression of great sorrow. “First were the Dragonguard devoured, woman of the Akaviri. The Worm well knew that their blades would bite deepest in the final battle.”

            Callaina pressed her hands to her mouth and shuddered. “I see. Then I remain outside.”

            “Do not go into the mists, sharp-tongued Voice of Kyne, for Alduin will seek you out.” Tsun looked sternly at Bjarni. “No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?”

            “I am Bjarni Ulfricsson, Dragonborn, soon to be High King of Skyrim. I claim by my right as a doom-driven hero.”

            Tsun smiled grimly. “Ah! It's been too long since last I faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon blood. Living or dead, by decree of Shor, none may pass this perilous bridge 'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test.”

            Bjarni drew his axe with a grin. “So let’s get started.”

            Taller than even the tallest Altmer, Tsun was almost grotesquely muscled. But he was slow. Bjarni had been trained from nearly birth to be as agile and fast as he was strong. For every one of Tsun’s swings with the great battleaxe, Bjarni scored two hits, and eventually the God of Trials stepped back with a laugh.

            “Go in, son of Ulfric!”

            Bjarni glanced at Callaina, who shook her head. “This is the hope of every Nord,” he told her, bewildered.

            “Not mine,” she said softly. “Go on, Bjarni. I will prepare for the battle.”

            Across the Whalebone Bridge and behind the golden doors lay the Hall of Valour. Nords of every Hold feasted, fought and even fucked inside the Great Hall, only a great throne of impossible radiance standing empty. Bjarni blinked and the light was gone, leaving only a golden chair.

            “Welcome, Dragonborn! Our door has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare here. By Shor's command we sheathed our blades and ventured not the vale's dark mist. But three await your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe. Gormlaith the Fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the Valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim.”

            The man who spoke was a good half-foot taller than Bjarni, and Bjarni was one of the tallest Nords in Skyrim at six feet, seven inches. He was grey-haired and bearded, with ancient Nord armour that was occasionally found in the old tombs, and an ebony axe carved with a screaming elf’s face was slung across his back.

            “Ysgramor,” Bjarni breathed.

            “I see the Atmoran blood has not run thin in you, lad,” the hero-father of all Nords said with a grin. “But Shor spoke of two Dragonborn?”

            “My sister didn’t come into Sovngarde. She’s Nord with a Yokudan-Akaviri father.” That was the easiest way to explain his sister’s ancestry to an ancient hero.

            “Ah, Heaven’s Reach for her then.” Ysgramor clapped Bjarni on the shoulder. “Go then, son of Ulfric, and teach that wretched wyrm his place in the scheme of Shor’s design.”

            The Three Tongues waited for him at the golden doors. They exchanged a few words and then strode forth. Scrambling, Bjarni caught up to them.

            Running across the Whalebone Bridge, he was so intent on not falling into the River of Stars that he nearly missed Alduin emerging from the mists to hover before Tsun and Callaina.

            “Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan.”

            “It is not me who will be devoured,” Callaina said clearly. “I know my fate, World-Eater. Do you know yours?”

            “Zu'u Alduin, zok sahrot do naan ko Lein.”

            “What is might but a breath in the wind of Kynareth’s gales?” Callaina smiled and glanced over at Bjarni. “You’ll be a good king, little brother.”

            Then she took a deep breath and Shouted “KOOR-LAH-NOOR!”

            It was her name in Dovahzul. “Summer-Magicka-Peak.”

            “VEN MUL RIIK!” Alduin Shouted in response, the mist closing around them both.

            Bjarni reached out in despair as a hot wind, scented with all the ripe richness of a summer’s day, blasted across the River of Stars to strike at Alduin’s mists.

            “CLEAR SKIES!” Felldir yelled to the other Tongues. “CLEAR SKIES!”

            It took three uses of the Shout, which Bjarni had never bothered to learn, and when the mists were banished Alduin was covered in wounds and burns. At his feet, ethereal turquoise light in the shape of a dragon’s horns and scales fading, lay the broken body of Callaina.

            “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Bjarni poured every mote of his rage and hate into the Shout, purple light bursting from his mouth to strike Alduin full in the face. The dragon landed clumsily on the ground and the Three Tongues unleashed their own preferred Shouts on the World-Eater.

            Alduin tried to snap and Shout in response, but the Shouts of the four were too relentless and varied. Whenever he did manage to get up, a hot hard wind blew from the River of Stars and drove him to his knees once more. Finally, he was driven back towards the abyss. Finally, with one final Unrelenting Force from Bjarni, he stumbled and fell over the edge.

            “Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!” he shrieked as he fell into infinity.

            “That was a mighty deed! The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever. But your fate lies elsewhere. When you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you again, with glad friendship, and bid you join the blessed feasting.”

            Tsun didn’t have to sound so triumphant, Bjarni thought bitterly as he turned to face Callaina’s body. But it was gone.

            “Kaan has taken her,” Tsun said softly. “She knew her fate from Alduin’s Wall and faced it fearlessly.”

            “What the fuck do you mean by that?” Bjarni demanded, tears in his eyes. She wasn’t supposed to die, dammit.

            “Shor could not intervene but Kaan… Kaan has ever been wrathful with Alduin for stepping out of his appointed place and murdering the Jill he was paired with,” Tsun continued. “Koor-Lah-Noor. Or Kah-Lah-Nah, depending on who you spoke to. If a Dragonborn Shouts their true name, they briefly become the dragon they are but lose their mortality and life.”

            “In killing the Jill – again – Kaan was free to act against him,” Felldir said softly. “Your sister did not die in vain, Bjarni Ulfricsson.”

            “Fuck Kynareth!” Bjarni said harshly. “I WANT MY SISTER BACK!”

            He got a Shout to summon a hero of Sovngarde and a trip home instead.


	26. Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Welp, folks, this is the end! Thanks for being with me the whole way. Trigger warning for mentions of war, death and massacre. Yes, I know this chapter is a bit of an ass-pull, to quote the trope, but it felt right to end it here.

 

The babe was a strong healthy one with his father’s sable hair and his mother’s crystal-blue eyes. The High Priest of the Temple of All Gods sprinkled holy water on his brow, dedicating him to Shor and Kyne, and the crowd cheered when the name of Callain was announced. There was already a Hoag, an Istgeir and a Torygg. Farkas supposed that it was time Bjarni and Elisif started naming their kids after the maternal side of Bjarni’s family.

            Ten years since the defeat of Alduin and five since the Second Great War, where a coalition of Nords, Redguards and Bretons threw the Aldmeri Dominion into the seas of Iliac Bay. Farkas had gone soldiering in that war and he shuddered at the Shout that destroyed the Thalmor’s great fleet. “Storm Call,” a priestess of Kynareth told him after a few drinks. It had taken a few more to settle Farkas’ nerves after the slaughter.

            He left Vilkas to make the obligatory congratulations and exited the crowded Temple. With everyone either crowded into the holy place or preparing to get royally shit-faced at royal expense, the streets of Solitude were quiet for a sultry summer afternoon. He left the city altogether, leaving word with a guard at the gates, and went down to the docks to watch the hawks flying over the sea. It was peaceful down here.

            He wasn’t alone for long. Wooden slats creaked and he looked over his shoulder to see a slender, graceful figure in a brown priestess’ robe with a blindfold across her eyes. Silver-threaded black hair was cut around an olive-bronze face marred by splotchy burn scars. Few wondered why she chose to go hooded and blindfolded with scars like that.

            Farkas chuckled again. It was always good to be on the fun side of a prank and you couldn’t get much bigger than the prank Hawk and he had pulled on Skyrim for ten years.

            “I saw the tomb,” she remarked in a low hoarse voice. “The politest thing I could call it was ‘grandiose’.”

            “Aurelia Callaina died for Skyrim,” Farkas said sententiously. “She deserves a glorious tomb.”

            “’Grandiose’, Farkas. The word is definitely ‘grandiose’.” Hawk looked out across the harbour. “Did Empress Akaviria send an Ambassador to the baptism?”

            “Yeah. Some old guy named Irkand Aurelius. Cyrodiil’s fuck you to Rustem and Sigdrifa, I suppose.”

            “Irkand is as diplomatic as a brick to the face,” Hawk said wryly. “But… something resembling peace across most of Tamriel. That’s something, I guess.”

            “You ever gonna tell ‘em?”

            Hawk shook her head. “No. Aurelia Callaina’s better off dead. I’d rather be known as the poor blind priestess who got burned in a dragon attack.”

            “If Bjarni ever finds out…”

            “He’ll yell at me and then want to know how the hell I pulled off such a prank. I know who sawed the legs of Jarl Skald’s chair halfway through last Moot.”

            Farkas laughed. “I’m not sorry. No one ever suspects me.”

            “I suppose they don’t.”

            They watched the sun set on the bay. It was good.


End file.
